Solitude
by Drowned Hopes
Summary: SLASH. Eragon's sick of playing hero. After his capture and, later, his escape, he learns of his "parents" disloyalty to one another. On HIATUS due to the authoress's frustration over certain boundaries Paolini - the jerk - set up in the canon. Sorry.
1. Prologue: Forgetting

**I'm back once again! **

**The typical warning apply here: like everything else I write, this will be slash. That means hot male on male action, people! Homophobes and the timid beware, read on at your own risk. You have been warned. Thoroughly. **

**This particular fic is also going to have scenes of... ahem graphic nature later on. As in lemons. As in plural. **

**Third warning: swearing. Though if the lemons and the slash don't bother you, I don't see why strong language would. **

…

**Is everyone who shouldn't be reading this gone? **

**Good. Moving on...**

**(Disclaimer: The rights to Eragon belong to the one and only Christopher Paolini. I am not working with anyone affiliated with Christopher Paolini or his publisher, and am in no way making money for this.)**

-------------------------------------------

**Prologue: Forgetting **

**-------**

Another one dead.

Bodies – living bodies attacking him, dead bodies tripping him, dying bodies thrashing and oblivious. Bodies everywhere, all human, male and female, some too mutilated to tell, all dead or about to be. He was outnumbered, hopelessly so – there were exactly seven dead, three dying, and twelve either unharmed or only slightly injured. Eragon's face was grim as he spun, sword thrusting and whirling, feet skipping lightly on the ground, his body in constant motion as he danced to avoid the various attacks.

He was winning.

He was a Rider, after all.

He spun again, catching one unawares – only a few would approach him now, and this one had been bold. Too bold. The man stumbled away, stomach contents exposed through a gaping slash, blood spilling over it's companions dead bodies before it, too, fell, not dead but hopelessly dying.

Killing them was just so easy.

He pushed onward with a growl of anger – whether toward himself, or toward these beasts, he didn't know. He just did it.

Another traitor fell, bleeding, then another, and this time the victim's neck was completely severed with the force of Eragon's blow. Then the Rider stopped, considering the ten left. Ten. Just those few, when originally twenty, and he the only sent after them.

How easy. How horribly, laughingly, frustratingly easy.

Moments later, two more where dead. Eragon was tiring of this, but he knew he couldn't stop. He had to kill them all as soon as possible – he had a responsibility. They were traitors.

It had nothing to do with the frustration tearing him apart.

No, he was doing this for Lady Nasuada.

Eragon slashed off another' head – an impossible feat for a human, but an easy accomplishment for him. The man died instantly, face transfixed in surprise and pain and rage. Another and another fell – five left. Eragon panted, swinging with wild abandon now. He wanted them dead. He wanted it bad, wanted to kill until everything just went away, wanted to push his body to it's furthest limits and push it farther still.

A sudden movement startled him – his brown eyes flickered to the side. A single young man fleeing.

Mentally, Eragon cursed. There where still four left he had to kill, he couldn't go after the runaway. But someone else could.

_Saphira,_ he called.

_Yes, little one?_ Saphira responded after a moment. She was hunting – Eragon could feel her teeth clench around the deer she tore voraciously at._ What are you doing? _

Eragon hesitated. Now that he thought about it, maybe he _could_ handle this on his own. All he had to do was kill the four left quickly, then go after the runaway. Besides, Saphira wouldn't find hunting in a forest very easy – the trees would prevent her from landing, and she wouldn't be able to move very well with her size. No, he didn't need her.

_Nothing, never mind_, he told Saphira, then immediately shut their connection.

A moment before he did, he felt her protest, but it was cut off as he blocked her out. He didn't need her right now, and he couldn't be distracted.

He stabbed another – three left.

Two more thrusts and there were two.

A short leap. A kick and a slash. One.

A scream of rage. His or the traitor's? It didn't matter.

The soft sound of a blade entering flesh and tearing through to the other side. A gasp, a last intake of breath. Blood spurting, soaking his clothes.

Then there were none.

Eragon dropped to the forest floor, panting, his body aching pleasantly from exertion. As soon as his breathing eased, he sprang upright again, eyes searching for the spot the young man had disappeared into.

The forest around him was dark as night was falling, the moon rising, a distant wolf howling and a pack joining his song. The crickets chirped softly as he listened and strove to block out such sounds. The small clearing that the traitors had been camping in was wet with blood, the thick smell of recent death clogging his senses; the bodies stank in life, and now, drenched in blood, they smelled even worse. His eyes, although better for night than most human eyes, had to strain to see.

Eragon struggled to remember where he had seen the young man exit – he'd been in the throes of battle at the time, it hadn't occurred to him to try to memorize the spot. He knew that the fleeing man would not go to east – that was were Nasuada's new headquarters were.

Where, then?

Finally, something occurred to him.

He knelt on the blood-stained grass, looking into a pool of blood. He considered it a moment, then nodded to himself. It would work.

"Bei'noya iet uinnaraoi (show my prey)," he commanded in the ancient language. (A/N: the part in parentheses is a translation, if you didn't already figure that out). Immediately, shadows began to ripple under the surface of the crimson liquid, morphing into images.

Eragon smiled triumphantly. He had worried the young man had fled to a place he had not seen before, and therefore could not scry, but apparently it wasn't so. There were definitely surroundings – the only problem was that the murky red tint made it difficult to see much. After a moment, however, he managed to make out where it was.

Quickly he rose, turning southwest.

His prey didn't have a chance.

He stumbled as he fled, leaving a beautifully clear path for him - crushed undergrowth, disturbed leaves along the forest floor, things such as that. When Eragon finally caught up to his prey, only a fifteen minutes had passed. When he paused to rest, Eragon drew his sword, leapt forward, and ran the young man through.

The body dropped, and he was alone again.

He stared blankly at the body, the man he'd killed. It had been necessary. He'd enjoyed it – the thrill of the hunt that drew him away from reality. There was nothing wrong with what he had done – nothing at all. And he felt no guilt. But now everything was wrong, now everything was bad, and he was alone – no distractions.

_I have Saphira_, a voice whispered in his head._ My partner. My friend. _

"Constantly in my head, reading my thoughts, seeing everything there – I don't want her in my mind, not now or ever," he muttered.

_I need her. She's always been there for me. She's a part of me. _

"Just another person, no matter who she is to me, don't want anyone seeing in my head…"

_She's the only person I can talk to._

He sat down on the ground, closing his eyes.

He was sick of this. Sick of killing, sick of wanting to be killed, sick of responsibility.

_Nasuada needs me to do this_, he told himself. _The more rebellious young men deserted, it was an emergency . Someone has to kill them before they get to Galbatorix – some of them are high-ranking officials who know more than we can allow Galbatorix to find out. _

He nodded. Nasuada needed him to do this – he was the only one who could. He'd spent days in the forest and surrounding area of the new Varden's headquarters, he had seen almost every spot of the area of the traitors were in. That meant he could scry them and find them, unlike the other magic users, who would only be able to see the people (if they were even that lucky), not their surroundings.

And if his liege sent out parties to track them down, there would be that many less people working and guarding – not to mention that some would die, but it was highly unlikely any of the traitors would managed to kill a Rider. He was the only logical choice.

Logic. That was all that was left, now.

He felt a tug at the edge of his consciousness – Saphira was calling him. He gritted his teeth and strengthened his mental walls, blocking her out with difficultly; after all, it was kind of hard to block someone out of your head when they spent a good deal of their time there. Not that she did anymore.

_She wants to help_.

"I don't want her in my head," he muttered. He got up, brushing himself off. He had killed thirty-three deserters; that was almost half of the ones he'd been told were missing. He still had things to kill, no time for contemplation.

Silently, he knelt on the blood-stained ground. A pool of blood had collected in the grass; the dirt was still soaked from last night's downpour, so the blood hadn't soaked in yet. "Bei'noya iet uinnaraoi," he commanded again.

Once again, the shadows rippled under the surface of the liquid, then morphed into images. Eragon frowned as he saw them. A party of six men sat around a fire. But the space around the fire was unusually big for such a small group – it looked like they were seating twenty-five, not six. Perhaps they were expecting others?

He quickly decided it didn't matter. Cleaning and sheathing his sword, he trotted off.

---------

"Lady Nasuada, where has Rider Eragon gone to?"

Nasuada looked up. She sat at her desk, calmly composed like always. The reports and her notes were scattered all over the desk – she was too busy to keep everything organized, and she allowed no one to touch her desk save herself, in case they misplaced or threw away something important.

Arya stood before her – it was she who had spoken. Her face was unnaturally serene as she spoke again, bowing. "I apologize if I am interrupting you, Lady Nasuada. The guards said you had no pressing business. Do you know where Rider Eragon is?"

Nasuada nodded briefly. "I'm afraid about fifty men deserted. Morale has been low since the news about Murtagh's betrayal was leaked out to the men. I sent Eragon to kill or capture the deserters. I thought it best – he can find them quickly and is a strong enough warrior to beat them without much of a problem."

Arya's reply was smooth. "Indeed, and I wish him well, but he is not well. Things may not turn out best."

Nasuada shrugged, but Arya could see that underneath the woman's uncaring exterior she was worried. "He is a Rider," she said simply. "He strength in battle will not fail."

"I do not worry for his physical strength - it's the way he's been acting, Lady. But when will he return? I must speak with him." Arya's face was still smooth was expressionless. In an earlier time, she probably would have taken off her blank mask. In an earlier time, things had not been so tense. In an earlier time, Arya had begun to trust the human woman.

But not now. Things were very difficult now – now that Murtagh had betrayed them. Everyone was tense now, wondering who the next traitor would be, who could be trusted, who wanted what. No one trusted anyone anymore.

"I have no idea when he will return," Nasauda replied, looking back down at her reports. "He left this morning at first light. It's been almost twelve hours – I'm not sure how long it will take, however, and if he will return immediately after completing his task."

Arya bowed her head. "I see. Thank you, Lady. Please inform me when he returns."

She left.

Arya was silent as she moved through the halls of the Varden's new base of operations. She stepped without purpose, not sure where she was going or why she was going there. She wanted to speak with Eragon, but… he wasn't around, and just as Nasuada said, he probably wasn't going to be back for a while. But what should she do in the meantime?

_Perhaps I should talk to Saphira_, she thought, stopping suddenly.

_No_, she thought a moment later. _Or… maybe yes._

She began to stride determinedly through the halls, this time with purpose. She needed to talk to Eragon, so she'd tell Saphira to tell him to come back as soon as he was finished hunting down the deserters. Either that, or she would just tell Saphira to tell Eragon, or ask Saphira to inform her when the Rider returned.

Soon she found herself stepping into the huge chamber that was Saphira's room – or more like her large, roofless hall – smiling at the sapphire dragon, who was curled up on her bed of pines nettles. The dragon's stomach was swollen – no doubt she had been hunting recently.

"Saphira," she called out, her tone respectful.

The dragon's eyes flickered open. She had apparently had not been sleeping after all. _Yes, Arya? _

_Where is Eragon? _

_Hunting. He will return soon, I believe. _

_You believe? _Arya asked, puzzled_. You do not know? Can you not contact him?_

_He's shutting me out. He has not spoken to me out of anything but necessity since... since the battle. When Murtagh revealed himself. _

_Why?_Arya exclaimed, horrified.

She knew of the close bond between Rider and dragon, and knew how strange it was for one to shut the other out for long periods of time. The bond between two such beings was sacred, and to cut it away...

But for Eragon to do this… his mental state must be more unstable than any of them realized.

_He's been depressed, _Saphira told her. Frustration, as well as hurt, leaked into her tone; the dragon was not as skilled as the elf in hiding emotion.

_Oromis should know of this, _Arya said.

_Do as you wish, _Saphira replied unhappily, closing her eyes again.

---------

Eragon slipped through the forest, eyes straining in the dark. He knew he should probably stop and rest for the night- it was already almost too dark to see, the full moon's light hidden beneath thick clouds. But he couldn't - he still had deserters to kill. That was excuse enough. Besides, they'd be easier to kill when half-asleep. If he made it quick enough, he could possibly make it back before nightfall the next day.

So he crept stealthily along in the shadows of the trees, almost invisible in his dark cloak against the blackness of the creeping night. Soon it would be pitch black, but he dared not summon magical light – he couldn't be seen.

Finally, he saw it. In just the place he saw in his scrying, he saw a flickering light, a campfire, shining it's way through the dark forest like the light at the end of a tunnel.

Perfect. He smiled.

The darkness concealed the path beaten through the underbrush and the damage done to the shrubs and bushes – signs that more than six had passed this way. Quite a few more than six.

He also missed the withered appearance of the foliage, leaves dead, stems brown and broken, berries rotted and half-falling off their bushes – all sure signs that a magic user had drained them to regain lost power.

Eragon slid behind a tree, keeping the campfire opposite of the barrier. He hadn't seen much of the six at the fire; he dared not sneak a peek around the tree, and he'd only caught glimpses before as he went from shadow to shadow, focusing mostly on not being seen or heard. He strained to hear the conversation. Low voices spoke, two of them, both male. Finally, after several moments of struggling to hear and only making out the barest of sounds, he muttered, "Thverr vindr un atra eka hörna (transverse air and let me hear)."

It was as if a switch had been flipped. He jumped slightly as a voice spoke next to his ear.

"-not so sure we should do this," a male voice said.

Eragon winced. He hoped that he was the only one able to hear the results of the spell.

"You're having second thoughts now?" chuckled a second voice. "We already made off with food supplies and valuables from Lady Nasuada and deserted her, we can't exactly go back."

"I know, but those people are… terrible," the first man said. The words should have sounded childish, but so full of fear and disgust, they sounded only sincere. "Especially _him_."

"Don't let him hear you," mumbled a third voice.

"I don't see him anywhere," scoffed the second.

"That's when you need to be scared," muttered the third man. "When you don't know where he is. Shadow beast that he is..."

"Blöthr du Shur'tugal (hold/bind the Rider)," growled a male voice.

Eragon froze as he heard those words. Partially because the male voice wasn't the one of those from before, partially because the voice had spoken in the Ancient Language, which was impossible because there hadn't been a magic-user among the deserters, and partially because his body was now literally frozen.

Utterly helpless, Eragon couldn't even blink, much less speak the words he needed to free himself, much less even gather the air in his lungs to speak those words. He could only sit, frozen into a sitting position as someone behind him chuckled softly and dragged him by his shirt into the clearing.

He lay on the ground there, staring at the boots of his captor and the circle of people around the fire. If he could have breathed, he would have gasped, because it wasn't six people around the fire – it was almost thirty.

Impossible. When he'd scryed –

_I can only scry things and people I've already seen before_, he realized suddenly. _I only saw the deserters I'd met before. But the magic user - _

There shouldn't have been a magic-user, and there shouldn't have been this many people. There were extra, at least five extra, that, from their clothes and fine swords, were not of the Varden. That wasn't right –

They shouldn't be here – there shouldn't have been a magic-user, this wasn't right, he couldn't die, and it _hurt_, his lungs were burning and the world was spinning and the magician was talking, something about someone dying and he was dying; everything was vanishing in patches, and he couldn't even twitch in protest – he'd been forced into a life or responsibility and unwanted fame for this? To die in the dirt, suffocated –

- everything was spinning –

and then it was all gone.

------

**Yeah, Eragon's kind of angsty in this one. I'll explain why later. Don't worry –he doesn't stay like this the entire fic. **

**-DH**


	2. Imprisonment and Cellmates

**Chapter Two**

**-------**

He was burning.

He panted, lips pleasantly bruised from the ferocious kiss. He moaned, mind whirling and frozen at the same time. He writhed, the touch of his companion only adding fuel to the desperate fire.

Lustily his companion whispered to him. Wonderful, soft words – gentle touches, rough somehow. Quiet contentment, building into need. Callused hands caressing him, exploring every inch of his skin with reverent fascination. His companion above him, eyes dark with want, lips curled into a smile.

Lust.

He reached up, tugging his partner down to him and joining their lips. A whisper of breath escaped him when they parted; hurriedly, they joined again. With grace, he flipped then over so that he straddled the other, who only laughed a the challenge.

It was a game. He smiled back, fighting his impatience – it would be worth it, he knew from experience. But he let his smile grow wicked, and teasingly raked his fingers down his victim's sensitive sides, earning a soft gasp.

"We have all night," came a whisper.

"Then let's not waste it," came the reply.

Touches. A brushing of lips. Yearning. A building of passion. Heat. A dam burst. Desperation. Joining.

Climax.

Afterglow.

Being held, holding another. He sighed, body aching pleasantly from the high energy of sex, his mind at rest and focused on the warmth generated by his companion. Neither dominant nor subservient, simply together. Simply equal.

He smiled, snuggling closer to the soft body next to him. He brushed his fingers across smooth skin, fingering the dips and curves of muscle and bone and wondering, absentmindedly, what it would be like to take a paint brush to this beautiful body and mark it with design, to bring abstract beauty to this natural beauty. "What?" his companion whispered. There was no reply, only another smile and a quick, chaste kiss, which didn't stay chaste for long.

"You know," a voice said (his or the other's?), "I think I – "

His eyes snapped open.

Murtagh panted quietly into the silent room. His eyes were wide and his face even paler than normal, his limbs shaking and his skin slick with sweat. After a moment of listening to his own harsh breathing, he roughly pushed himself upright and dropped his raven-haired head into trembling his trembling hands.

What the hell had _that_ been?

Oh, it was obvious enough what it had been. But why had it been so very real? A deep, shuddering breath wracked his chest. So real – he could still feel the body next to him, denting the mattress and warming the sheets, and he half-expected an arm to tug him back down and a drowsy voice to murmur for him to go back to sleep. He could still feel the taste of his imaginary companion on his tongue, could remember every curve in the nonexistent flesh. He could still feel the pleasant ache of lust and comfort.

Comfort that came for a false sense of safety. Lust for someone that didn't exist outside his dreams.

He sighed, letting his hands drop from his face.

He forced himself to look at the room. Bare, hard walls. A old antique dresser against the opposite wall. An elliptical rug, barely distinguishable from the dark stone of the floor. An end table that matched the dresser sat next to the bed, a dagger secured to the underside – just in case. Za'roc lay under his pillow, carefully concealed. A wardrobe containing various shirts and uncomfortable finery smugly occupied another corner of the room.

"This is reality," Murtagh whispered. "This is real."

The words echoed softly in the large, empty room, and he grimaced at the sound.

How he hated this room. It was spotless; no matter how much mess he made, how much of an attempt he made to make it appear more normal, it was always perfect, as the maids were zealous to a fault. The room was also too quiet for his liking, the thick stone walls keeping out any and all sound; how was he supposed to distract himself is such constant silence? And the darkness – his room, despite the large windows, received little sunlight, and he hated the smell of oil lamps.

He even hated the furniture. Especially the bed. The big, comfy bed. It was too soft for someone like him, who was used to sleeping on the hard ground, or, at best, grass. It was far too big for a single person, and although he never shared a bed with any same person for more than a night, it felt so strangely… empty.

What an odd feeling that was, one he'd never experienced before and did not like. As a child with a mother who died not long after his birth and a father who was, at best, absent, and as a young man who had little patience for his peers, he shouldn't have been feeling that feeling. There shouldn't have been anyone to miss, yet something was missing.

Some**one** was missing.

He sighed again and rose from the bed, knowing he would not sleep again that night. The dream of another beside him, of being so safe and so at ease in the presence of someone who didn't exist, would haunt him and prevent his mind from retreating. Even worse, he could fall asleep and then have the same dream again.

He padded silently to the balcony door and went through it, almost smiling in relief as the cool night air washed over him. He _would_ have smiled, if he did such things anymore. The chilled air calmed his minute shaking and his too-warm body, easing tense muscles and banishing discomfort. Lazily, he allowed himself to think of other things – of how the ground would soon be covered in snow, of curling up in front of a fire, of how beautiful the frosted land would look below him while he flew with Thorn… and then he found himself thinking of curling up in front of a fire with someone curled up next to him, and of bringing someone flying with Thorn and him.

_Thorn_, he called, purely on impulse.

The red dragon stirred, but did not wake. _Thorn_, Murtagh called again, this time more forcefully.

Nothing. Then, a grumble, and Murtagh could almost fell his mouth stretch as Thorn yawned hugely.

_Murtagh?_ the dragon rumbled sleepily.

Murtagh smiled for the first time in a long time. Almost as quickly at it came, it was gone, vanished beneath his hardened exterior. _Who else speaks to you mind-to-mind? _

Thorn picked his head up and opened his eyes, looking the general direction of his human; though they were far apart, separated by thick walls, they could still tell where the other was. _What are you doing awake? _

_I had a dream. _

_A nightmare? _

_No,_ Murtagh replied simply.

Thorn sat up and crossed his forelegs in front of him, now wide awake. _Why did you wake me? _

_No reason_, Murtagh said absentmindedly. He most certainly was not going to mention to Thorn that he was feeling lonely. Not that he _was_ feeling lonely, or course.

How could he feel lonely? He had no one to miss.

Again, he sighed.

_Thorn?_

_Yes, dragonling? _

_I wish we were free. I miss…_ Murtagh trailed off, blushing slightly at his words. He didn't want to suddenly open up to his dragon, it just sort of happened. He hated being weak and sentimental like this.

_You miss who? _

…_I don't know. I just miss someone. Like there's a hole were something never was,_ he said quietly.

_Ah_, Thorn said, as if suddenly understanding. _Don't worry about it. We have each other. _

_It isn't enough._

_No, but it'll do for now_. Thorn curled up into a ball, closing his eyes again. _Sleep, my Rider. We'll find who we need._

Murtagh nodded after a moment, feeling Thorn drift back to sleep. But he didn't go back to bed. No, instead he walked over to his dresser and pulled out some clothes, then went to his wardrobe and pulled out a thick gray cloak. Fastening it around his neck, he stepped out the door.

The maids found him attractive enough – one of them would do. It would be a simple arrangement, a warm body in a soft bed for a single night, then back to normal in the morning. A temporary patch for the hole in his chest – a release, a physical and emotional need he didn't have the heart to deny right now.

He was alone for now, but he didn't have to be tonight.

He passed only one person on the way through the castle; the absence of people was not exactly odd, considering the time of night. But that one person was enough to make him pause – was that gray skin? And he could have sworn the man had grinned at him as he'd passed, showing pointed teeth...

If it was important, he would have been told, he decided.

Finally he made it to the small servants door that led into the castle grounds. Stepping through it, he found himself in the courtyard; he almost smiled. Beautiful, for such an evil place as this.

A statue of a young dragon sat in the middle, shining softly in the moonlight, the red sandstone like fire. Tile paths cut through the open courtyard, crimson and different shades of gray stone weaving artful patterns throughout them. A small portion of the tile was torn apart, long gashes tearing through the solid stone - evidence of a dragon landing there often. A red maple sat in each of the four corners, their spidery crimson leaves hanging down gracefully. In the very dim light, a small gate could be seen on the other side of the statue; an entrance from the castle grounds.

A noise startled him from his reverie. Several noise; yelling and exclaiming, celebratory noises. Noises that shouldn't have been going off in the middle of the night.

The gate at the other end of the courtyard burst open.

Five men stumbled through the gate. They were struggling with something – no, someone. Two gripped a struggling form, and two more stood by, laughing and shouting advice, while the third and largest watched flatly and walked on past, carrying a large bundle over his shoulder.

"Curse it, won't he give up?" Murtagh heard someone yell.

"He's desperate, the poor bastard!" one of the struggling men laughed. "Get your whip, Dorian! Let's – "

"Who goes there?" Murtagh shouted, drawing his sword as a precautionary measure. It never hurt to be careful, and magic could only help him so much.

The large one, who was now nearest, stopped and looked at him. "Depends," he called back. "Who goes _there_?"

"Rider Murtagh, owner of this estate," Murtagh retorted. "I have the right – and the power – to kill you where you stand. What the hell are you doing are doing barging into my castle in the middle of the night? Why didn't the guards stop you?"

The two struggling with the prisoner finally managed to pin the man to the ground. The two watching turned to him, and the largest didn't reply.

One of the two watching, a very thin man, pulled back his hood and bowed. "My apologies, lord. We are servants of your master, and we thought it best to bring these prisoners we captured to you. The guards let us pass when we showed them our captures." The large man patted his bundle and chuckled as the thin one spoke.

"Prisoners?" Murtagh asked coldly. "The dungeon here is full. I have no interest in them. Leave."

"You might have I interest, my lord, if you took a closer look," the thin one assured him.

Murtagh's voice was flat. "Really."

The prisoner being restrained gave a sob, thrashing against the figure pinning him. "Quiet, you," his captor ordered, drawing a knife and placing at his throat. The man stilled, obviously terrified.

"Yes, very interested," the thin man continued as if they had not been interrupted. "A few days ago, we were sent by our master to retrieve a stolen object. We were a little ways into Surda when we came upon twenty-five men, deserters of the Varden. We told them we'd pay them handsomely for any information they might offer us, and that we'd escort them to Galbatorix – fools that they were, they took us up on the offer. We decided to spend the night with them at their camp, then kill them in their sleep the next morning and keep one alive for interrogation.

"We would have gone through with this, but then we were interrupted by a little spy." Here the thing man chuckled. "Master Saldroz found the boy hiding near our camp, using magic to listen to our conversation – we knocked him out, tied him up, and went through with our original plan in the morning. And here we are, with the captive deserter and the little spy."

"Saldroz?" The name seemed familiar to Murtagh, but he couldn't place it.

"The shadow-shade, lord," the thin man explained.

"Thank you for telling me that," Murtagh growled. "Now I'm absolutely sure I'm not interested. Hold them in the city prison and interrogate them, like any other captive." He turned away, beginning to feel annoyed. All he'd left his room for was to go get a woman, and instead he got caught up in this.

The huge man gave a booming laugh. "Rider Murtagh, don't you want to see your little brother again?"

Murtagh froze, the words taking a long moment to register, and even then not making sense. "What?"

The huge man set his bundle on the ground and gestured toward it. "Have a look, Rider."

Murtagh turned slowly, then stared blankly at the bundle. He went forward hesitantly, then stared down with wide eyes.

Eragon.

_Eragon._

They'd caught him.

Murtagh almost forgot to breathe, his eyes fixed on his brother's face. He knelt down to inspect the body – cords were wrapped around Eragon's still form, a tight gag knotted into place across his mouth. His brother's eyes were closed, his head lolling, but otherwise, he appeared unharmed. Check that – his ankle was twisted at an odd angle, probably broken. But otherwise in one piece.

For a single, insane moment, Murtagh had the urge to draw his knife and stab Eragon where he lay, sparing his younger brother a life of slavery and torment.

But for that single moment, he resisted, then rose stiffly. He glanced at the other prisoner, the deserter. "Give the traitor to the torturers. Get as much information as you can, then kill him. As for Eragon, place him a cell and drug him."

"But you said the dungeons were full," one of the men said.

"Then place him with others in a cell," Murtagh said.

He turned away, shaking slightly. He forced himself to walk calmly back the way he'd come.

As soon as he was back in his room, he stopped, staring blankly at the wall. Then suddenly he lurched forward, snarling and punching the wall with as much force as he possessed.

"Damn it to hell!" he spat savagely. He punched again and again, his curses rising in volume, ignoring the ache in his hand as he swung. "Why, goddammit!"

Eragon. He stopped, panting, not even noticing the blood dripping from his knuckles. Eragon. They'd caught him. Now Galbatorix would have control over his brother, too. Not only did he himself have to endure this life of torture, both physical and emotional, but now Eragon had it thrust upon him as well? Was their bloodline cursed by Morzan's evil deeds and betrayal, and now they, his sons, had to atone for it? Murtagh swore, then and there, to never give a woman a child - he'd take herbs to temporarily sterilize himself before taking anyone to bed. And should such a child emerge despite such precautions, he would kill it, rather than have it bear this curse.

But maybe this wasn't so bad. Murtagh let himself relax, and sighed and sat on his bed. After all, this didn't change the outcome of the war. He knew the Varden was doomed to failure from the start, and that Eragon was being a fool to fight for the something that would never be. It wasn't like this would do anything but speed up the process of Galbatorix's victory.

Maybe this was a good thing. Eragon would be just like him, serving under the same master. Murtagh smiled bitterly. He had someone to suffer with now, perhaps. He wasn't alone – Eragon could understand him an a way no one else could, since they were in the same situation now. They were the only Riders alive.

He almost spoke to Thorn, but didn't. The dragon needed his rest, and could be told in the morning. Deciding that staying up wouldn't help him, either, he settled again onto the bed, and closed his eyes, not even bothering to remove his cloak.

**-------**

He shivered and opened his eyes, knowing in that moment that he wasn't alone.

Eragon moaned softly as the world came back to him, bit by bit. Nasuada telling him about the traitors. Offering to hunt them down – then battle, killing, the scent of death heavy in the air. A voice, female, once comforting and somehow his own, but one he wanted gone. Images in a pool of blood. A young man, lying dead on the ground. A mistake – shadows, magic, words that shouldn't be there. Then waking up here.

Here. Where was here?

Eragon blinked groggily, eyes slowly adjusting in the dim light. The first that hit him was the cold from the numbingly frozen air around him. Second was the color gray – everything was gray, the dark stone walls, the iron-bound door, the light through the window, the hard stone floor. Even a grayish tinge to his fingers, which were near his face on the floor.

A cell. He was in a prison cell. He'd been captured? He grimaced, pushing himself upright, then froze as he heard a soft groan behind him.

Suddenly the first thought he'd had upon waking came to him: the feeling that he wasn't alone. But that was impossible. In his training with Oromis, he'd been taught to sense all nearby living things, and he'd gotten so good at it he did it unconsciously all the time, even upon waking. Then how could he have missed a human presence? Why couldn't he detect them even now?

Another groan, louder this time. Eragon sprang lightly to his feet, then promptly on his butt when a sharp pain lanced through his right foot. Broken. But he'd accomplished one thing – whoever was behind him was now in front.

Correction – people behind him.

A man lay on the ground, his cloths worn and dirty, his face pained and sweat glistening on his brow. He moaned as he stirred feebly – long gashes covered his chest, almost as if a giant cat had raked it's claws across the skin there. The cuts were red and inflamed, the red streaks of infection reaching across the gray skin. The old man's hair was gray tinged and dirty, his body thin and feeble – it was obvious he'd spent quite of bit of time here.

A woman, looking of about forty winters, dabbed at the man's brow gently, almost motherly. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, was little more than shoulder-length, and her skin sagged a bit, as if she had lost a lot of weight in little time. Her sad face was lined with many small wrinkles, a sure sign of too much time in the sun. Her clothes were sturdy, and of simple make – a farmer's wife, then, or a herbalist's assistant who spent much time outsides gathering herbs. She glanced up at Eragon, her blue eyes weary. "Ah, you're awake."

Eragon nodded, not sure what else to do, then glanced at the third occupant of the cell.

A young man sat with his back to the wall, his brown hair lank, his lips curled into an ironic smile that was probably a permanent fixture on his face. Like the other two, he was too thin, and pale from lack of sunlight, but his clothes, although torn and frayed, were of expensive make. He was a little short, his limbs a little bony, his eyes slightly tilted. His jade eyes were fixed on Eragon, and he gave a little wave and glanced down at the dying man.

The old man moaned again, thrashing his head back and forth.

"Shh," the woman murmured, stroking the old man's balding head soothing. She looked up at Eragon again. "He's been like this since I first walked into this cell – nearly a week and a half ago – and he's not wakened but twice. I fear the afterlife is all that's left for him."

Eragon nodded again, then settled comfortably on the ground. This was… odd. Last time he'd been captured, he'd been confined alone. Why had they placed him with others? Perhaps they didn't realize who he was. Did that mean his cellmates didn't know who he was, either? Should he tell them? If his captors didn't know, and he told his cellmates, would they tell their captors?

A whimper brought him back to reality. Eragon saw the young man flinch at the sound.

"He's been like that this entire time," the young man said, then sighed. "Wish the gods or whoever the hell is in charge of the universe would just kill him already – it'd be a mercy to all of us."

The woman glared at him reproachfully. "Child, don't say such foul things. They may happen."

"They should happen," the young man insisted. "The longer he suffers, the long we suffer. He might deserve to die slowly and painfully, but he might not, and I think at least one of us doesn't deserve to listen to him."

"I might be able to help," Eragon said.

The woman and the young man looked at him, startled, though the young man looked more curious than surprised.

Eragon ignored him, making his way carefully to the prone and dying man, cautious of his own broken ankle. He examined the body briefly, taking in the beads of sweat on the gray skin, the obviously infected wounds, and the smell of death that hung around the flesh. Was there anything he could do to help? The man's brain could be severely damaged by fever, if he had been in this state for a week and a half. Not only that, but while Eragon could heal wounds, infection was something that would remain.

Nothing left but to try. He placed his hands on the man's chest, and said:

nothing.

His mouth moved, but no sound came out. No words came to mind. No magic flowed through him. No syllables moved his tongue.

He couldn't use magic?

_They drugged me_, he realized, _That's why you couldn't sense anything before – you're magics cut off, just like in Uru'baen. They know I'm a Rider, then. But why did they put me in a cell with others, then? Not that it matters…_

"Are you alright?" the woman asked curiously, staring at him like he had lost him mind. The young man eyed him curiously.

Eragon blushed, realizing how foolish he looked, sitting there with his hands on the dying man's chest like a cheap imitation of a savior or a sage. "No, just inspecting him," he lied. "I don't think I can do anything."

"Nothing to be done any way," the young man said, shrugging. "He's as dead as we are. Actually, more."

Eragon withdrew his hands and moved away. "How did he get like that?"

"I don't know," the woman admitted. "Like I said, he's been like that since I got here a week and a half ago."

Eragon looked at the young man, who just shrugged. "I've only been here a week, mate. Looks _almost_ like a dragon got him, though, don't you think?" He grinned.

"I guess, I've never seen one," Eragon lied. "Where is this?"

"The castle just outside of Dras-Rojo," the woman explained.

"Huh?"

"The City of Red, closest large city to Surda, former home of one of the Foresworn, and current home of one of the most impenetrable prisons in the Empire," the young man said dryly. "You've never heard of it?"

"Oh," Eragon muttered. He'd heard of it. Nasuada had been talking about how she was afraid that's were the Empire would invade from.

"So you have. Child, how did you get here? You're a young one – did you refuse to be drafted to the army?" The woman's voice was sympathetic. "The got me for that – well, actually, the got me for hiding my son, who didn't want to be drafted."

"I…" Eragon trailed off, not sure what to say. "Uh, I sort of got into a fight with some soldiers." That was true enough.

The woman "tsked" softly. "Ah. Poor child, they'll probably beat you, but they'll let you go."

Eragon shrugged. Set free after a beating? He wished. "What did you get here for?" he asked the young man.

"Bedded the wrong woman," the young man explained. "I probably won't be getting out anytime soon."

The woman snorted.

Eragon blinked. "Not getting out soon? Why not? All you did was get involved with the wrong person. If they don't kill you for that, they usually just let you go after paying a fine."

The young man grinned. "I suppose you could say I'm a repeat offender – my father got sick of bailing me out of trouble and apologizing to everyone I offended. So here I am."

"And it doesn't bother him one bit that he's probably going to die here," the woman muttered. "Children, you're both young, yet neither of you seem to regret your loss. Don't you know how harsh Galbatorix is?"

The young man snorted. "If we're going to die here and there's nothing we can do about it, then why bother to be depressed about it? I say there's no point in sulking. Besides, we could escape."

Eragon nodded in agreement. He _had_ to escape – he couldn't just rot in prison, know that Galbatorix would soon come to enslave him. He owed a duty to Nasuada. As soon as he remembered this, he flinched.

The woman shook her head and opened her mouth to disagree, but the old man groaned again, tossing his head back and forth. She sighed and dabbed at his forehead, speaking softly and soothing.

"What are your names?" Eragon asked after a long moment of silence.

The woman shook her head, not looking up from her work. "Child, won't you introduce yourself first?"

Eragon shrugged. "I'd prefer not to. I'd just give you a false name anyway."

The young man laughed. "Good idea. I told her the same thing earlier."

"Well, mine's Minerva," the woman said briskly. "You two keep yours to yourself if you want, but I appreciate being called by my name and that's what it is. I hope you'll use it," she told Eragon, "I told him mine when he got here and he won't, just calls me granny." She shook her head disapprovingly.

Eragon didn't reply, just bowed his head and closed his eyes. His head was killing him, and talking hadn't helped, so he decided he'd just rest while he could.

He'd been captured. Nasuada might know, or she might not. Saphira would tell as soon as she realized that he was now unable to reach her instead of just blocking her out, but that might take a day or two – he'd gone off for peace and quiet before and not contacted her for days. She wouldn't be suspicious, only upset.

By the time Nasuada tried to get him out, Galbatorix would have already enslaved him. That meant he had to escape as soon as possible.

No doubt they'd realized how he escaped before, so they'd be force feeding him the drug instead of putting it in his food. So he couldn't starve himself again.

Perhaps when they came to drug him, he could fight his way out the door? No, he had no magic, and no weapon, and not only that, he didn't know how to fight hand-to-hand. And the guards would outnumber him and be armed, too.

He had to be stealthy, then. But how?

There had to be some way. _Had_ to be. He couldn't give up.

He'd just have to look for his chance to escape, then. He sighed, struggling to think of a plan of some sort, until after a long while, he fell asleep.

-----------------------------------------

**Yes, Eragon has been captured again. It's his own fault though... blocking out Saphira like that. The idiot. Don't worry, the reason for his angst will become clear in the next chapter. **

**Speaking of chapters! I will be updating this more often than usual, partially because the plot bunnies are breeding like crazy and I need to kill some of them off, and partially because I already have a few chapters ahead of this written. So expect one every... Thursday or Friday or so. About a week between each chapter. I will try to keep the chapters around 4,000 words, but I make no promises. **

**By the way... an OC from a story I wrote previously will have a part in this. In fact, two might, but I'm only sure on one... **


	3. Brothers

**To anyone who read the original version of this chapter: yes, I went back and changed some things. Eragon's monologue seemed too out of character and unrealistic, and it was bothering me. I also wanted to cut down on the purple prose... though I doubt I completely eliminated it...****  
**

**Chapter Three: Brothers **

Eragon awoke later to a grating squeal, the noise of his prison door being opened and the rusty hinges screaming in protest. He winced, eyes flickering open, hearing a surprised exclamation that was probably Minerva, who had not gone to sleep, and a grunt, that was probably the young man waking.

His opening eyes were greeted with the sight of a shoe a few feet from his face, in the entrance of the door. His lifted his gaze upwards, and his breath caught in his throat.

_Murtagh._

Eragon stared, wide-eyed, at his brother who stood in the doorway. "Murtagh?" he exclaimed, disbelieving. For a moment he was hit with insane joy – Murtagh was alive and well, and before him. His closest of kin, his rival, the only other Rider of his generation – and they were together once more. Then the feeling faded, replaced with the dull ache of betrayal, and with it, the instinctive hate of someone who had hurt him.

"Eragon," Murtagh said quietly, emotions flickering over his face too quickly to be read. Hope? Anger? Resignation? Then the calm mask he wore was back in place, and Eragon could not see beyond it.

Murtagh's eyes left his brother's face briefly, scanning the others in the cell. The old man dying on the floor, Minerva no doubt crouched over him and tending to him, the young man sitting against the wall, looking back warily.

Murtagh's eyes settled on the young man after a moment, something like recognition lighting in his eyes. Then he looked back at Eragon, and gestured for him to stand upright. "Come."

Eragon glared at him, refusing to move.

"Stubborn," Murtagh growled. "Do you want to die here?"

Eragon's eyes widened in surprise.

"I'm trying to help," Murtagh said flatly. "And I can't if you don't do as I say."

"You wouldn't help me," Eragon retorted. "You're bound to Galbatorix. You have to do as he says."

"I can't help you escape, no," Murtagh agreed. "Come."

Eragon didn't move, and Murtagh glared at him. "I can't get up," Eragon admitted. "My ankle's broken." He flushed at little at this; admitting the he couldn't even stand on his own to his rival wasn't something he enjoyed doing.

Murtagh's mouth twitched in amusement. He stepped forward, into Eragon's reach, and offered his gloved hand; Eragon took it, pulling himself upright and staggering slightly. Murtagh supported Eragon on his shoulder, motioning for the guard to close the door and lock it behind them. Eragon glanced back at the cell, to see his cellmates looking at him curiously. The two Riders began to walk down the dungeon hallway.

Eragon glanced around, noticing for the first time the lack of guards. Only a few here and there, and only three in sight. Murtagh had come down alone.

Guessing the brunet's thoughts, Murtagh smirked. "You're magicless, weaponless, and injured, and I happen to be one of the most powerful magic-users alive. Do you really think I need guards to help keep you in check?"

"Touché," Eragon muttered.

Murtagh hesitated, then laughed softly. The noise didn't sound quite right, almost like Murtagh was surprised he was laughing and wasn't quite sure how to do it. Eragon frowned at the thought, partially because it rang of truth, and partially because of how childish it sounded.

After a moment of limping and supporting himself on his brother, Eragon asked, "What are you doing here, anyway? Galbatorix send you to come torture fealty out of me?"

"Hardly," Murtagh replied. "I live here. And I doubt Galbatorix knows you're here yet."

Eragon froze, mouth dropping open. "What?"

Murtagh raised his eyebrows and tugged Eragon along to get him moving again. "Don't stop like that, I might drop you. Yes, I live here. This is our father's old estate – I inherited it upon his death."

Eragon flushed slightly at his own stupidity. Of course this was Murtagh's castle. The young man in the cell had told him that a Foresworn once lived here, and the city the castle was next to was named "The City of Red"; named, no doubt, for Morzan and his dragon. Not only that, but Nasuada had _told_ him Morzan had owned this castle; if he hadn't been so busy sulking, he might have paid more attention to her. "Oh," he muttered.

After a few seconds, Eragon opened his mouth to speak again, but Murtagh shook his head. "Wait until we get to my room. I don't want to accidentally say something I shouldn't when anyone could be listening."

Eragon found himself was curious. Things Murtagh didn't want others to hear? He knew his brother wasn't exactly loyal to his master, but Murtagh was literally unable to do anything traitorous; he was bound by oaths in the Ancient Language. But there were loopholes, and Murtagh had exploited them in the past. Hope, irrational, despairingly real hope lit a flame in Eragon's heart, and he found it impossible to extinguish. It wasn't possible, Murtagh couldn't… but maybe, just maybe…

Finally they reached a door in a long hall. Murtagh shifted so he could reach and open the door, nearly causing Eragon to drop, but Murtagh somehow managed to center their weight again. When Murtagh led him through the doorway, Eragon's breath caught in his throat.

The room was _huge_.

The furnishings were expensive and made of dark wood, the stone walls and floor of the room were of dark quality, and although their was a window, little light came through it, causing the room to have a permanent aura of quiet, seclusion, and depression. But was really hit Eragon was the vastness of it; the room was large, and the absence of anything but the necessary encouraged that impression. The room looked like it'd never been lived in; the bed was tidy, the covers weren't rumpled, the furniture was dust-free, and no clothes were strewn across the floor.

Murtagh guided him gently to the black-sheeted bed and set him down. Then he stepped back, eyes slightly wary.

"I wanted to talk to you." His voice was emotionless.

"I guessed. I suppose you took me here because you didn't want the guards or my cellmates to here what you have to say?"

Murtagh nodded again. "Galbatorix will be here soon," he told Eragon quietly.

"I know. How long?"

Murtagh shrugged. "Three days for a messenger to get to the capital, a day or two for him to fly here, plus whatever time it takes for me to actually send the messenger."

Eragon froze, eyes widening in disbelief. "_What?_ You haven't sent – "

Murtagh shook his head. "No," he admitted. "Not yet. He ordered me to inform him should I ever capture you. He failed to specify when, and I intend to take advantage of that. I need time."

"Time," Eragon repeated, confused and hopeful.

"To convince you," the raven-haired man explained.

"Convince – " Eragon stopped suddenly as he realized what Murtagh meant. "Go to hell," he growled. "I can't believe I actually thought you might be doing something decent – "

"Decent? Trying to save my brother from being tortured by a madman isn't decent?" Murtagh retorted. "You don't know what he can do to you, Eragon – you didn't go through what I did. And you don't_ need_ to go through it, just don't resist."

"Oh, yes, a perfectly wonderful idea," Eragon hissed. "Lie down on my back and let myself get stepped on like a good little slave."

"Only a fool would fight when he's doomed to lose, and you aren't a fool. Don't do this to yourself."

Murtagh's voice was insistent and held no doubts, but Eragon refused to give in.

"I won't – "

"And why not? Who are you doing this for?" Murtagh demanded. "Revenge for your uncle? He's dead, and it will do him no good. For the glory? Fame can't make you happy or keep you alive. For them? The people? They have no right to expect someone to just show up and make everything right. You don't owe anyone anything, so do something for yourself for once!"

"And gain what?" Eragon snapped back. "The only difference between you and I is the fact that you have to do everything he says and I don't. I may be a prisoner, but you're a slave."

"There_ is_ no difference between you and I, Eragon," Murtagh insisted.

Eragon stopped, looking at him oddly. "What do you mean?"

Murtagh stepped forward, his gaze fixed on his brother. "Don't tell me," he said quietly, sincerely, passionately, "that you honestly believe you were ever in a better position than I am currently."

"I don't know what you mean. Nasuada wasn't imprisoning me. She's my friend – she was _your_ friend."

"You know exactly what I mean." Murtagh's heated gaze didn't waver. "Because you've felt it, just like I have. The despair. We didn't choose this. We didn't want this. Don't tell me, Eragon, that you've never spent a sleepless night wishing Saphira didn't choose you."

Murtagh didn't press the issue farther, just held his gaze firmly. He didn't need to say anymore – Eragon knew exactly what he meant.

"You're right."

Murtagh stared, this time puzzled and a bit hopeful. He didn't know what he had been expecting, but this wasn't it. Eragon was beginning to listen to him? _Please_.

"You're right," Eragon announced again. He fell against the bed so that he was lying on his back with his leg hanging off the end, and closed his brown eyes. He was sick of lying to himself about this. He was sick of pretending to be the hero. "I hate this. At first I thought being a Rider was great – like becoming the hero in a fairytale. There's the bad guy, powerful beyond imagination, but there's no doubt you'll defeat him. There's the good guys, the ones you need to save. Then there's the beautiful woman that you save from a horrible fate who eventually falls madly in love with you."

Murtagh nodded as Eragon paused, urging him to go on.

"But then reality starts creeping back in. People you care about die. You start to see that the beautiful woman you're pursuing looks at you sometimes like she doesn't know whether to pity your worthless advances or be disgusted by them. Your best friend betrays you. And after a while, you hate it.

"You start to hate killing. You hate wanting to do more and not being able to. You hate being expected to do anything at all.

"And there's this voice in your head, reading your thoughts, stripping you bare without even trying. You start to hate her, because she knows just how human you are, just how weak and vulnerable and how you aren't really a hero. And she _knows _you hate her, but even though you love her like a sister, you can't stop hating her.

"So you throw yourself at any work you have, you constantly study magic so you don't have to think, you constantly exhaust yourself sparing so you can be to tired to dream about it. But all those problems are still there, and there's no way out except to win the war. You're still a prisoner..."

Eragon's voice trailed off.

Murtagh didn't speak, didn't break the fragile silence of the room. He wanted to shout in triumph and joy that someone else felt as hopelessly alone and trapped as he did. He wanted to rush to his brother and comfort him. He wanted to tear Galbatorix apart, limb from limb, from doing this to them.

So he settled for asking a simple question. "Why did you tell me that?" he asked.

"Because you understand," Eragon said bitterly, opening his eyes to look at Murtagh. "Because you hate being a Rider just as much as I do."

"So you do know, then. Then why don't you want to be by my side? We need each other, just like Saphira and Thorn need each other. We're the only of our kind, in a way, just like them."

Eragon closed his eyes again and didn't reply. Murtagh's heart almost stopped. Was Eragon actually considering it? _Please_, Murtagh silently begged any god that might be listening. _Please, just let him give in. I need him. _

"You can't stop him, Eragon. Whether or whether not you fight him, he will control you. And whether or not he controls you, he will defeat the Varden." Murtagh's voice was calm, as if stating facts, and Eragon found himself listening more closely than he should have. "There's no way to win – all you can do what's best for yourself. Give in. We're brothers, and we were meant to be side-by-side."

But Eragon shook his head, opening his eyes and staring coldly at Murtagh. "You're right about one thing, though – we were meant to fight side by side. We're the same. So help me fight him."

Murtagh hesitated.

That… made sense. But that didn't stop the fact that Eragon was fighting a losing battle – fighting Galbatorix would only lead to death or worse. Not that Murtagh even had to choice to fight Galbatorix; his true name now belonged to the madman, and with it, his free will. "You know I can't," he said quietly.

Eragon sighed and turned away. "I know," he admitted. "But it doesn't matter. This will end one way or the other – either I will win, and we will both be free, or he will win, and we'll serve him together."

Murtagh looked at his brother quietly; they say each other perfectly, every curve and toned muscle beneath skin, every movement of every expression, despite the dim light.

The raven-haired Rider swallowed, feeling somehow comforted and oddly horrified – he'd never felt this particular way about someone before. It wasn't any negative emotion, nor lust, nor love of any kind, and it went far beyond ordinary friendship. They understood each other perfectly. They felt the need to protect each other. They were rivals, almost perfectly equal in strength. They felt the need for each other's presence.

Kinship, then?

_Gods, I wish he weren't my brother. _

Murtagh froze, cutting off his train of thought right there. Why the hell had he thought _that?_ It was just something that came to him out of nowhere, a random, absentminded, stray thought. It'd just suddenly occurred to him that he didn't like Eragon as his brother.

"Murtagh?"

Murtagh blinked, coming back to reality, and realizing he'd been staring. "What?"

"You were spacing out," Eragon explained.

"Oh." Murtagh stared absentmindedly at Eragon's ankle, then sighed. "Lie down on the bed, will you?"

"Huh? Why?"

"So I can fix your ankle." Eragon obediently laid down on his back, sliding back so just his feet were hanging off the bed. Murtagh stepped over, kneeling by Eragon's feet. Then he remembered something he should have done earlier, but had forgotten. He glanced up at at the brunet again. "Sit up."

"You just told me to lie down."

"You can't drink lying down."

"What do I need to drink?"

Murtagh stood up, then picked up the cup that had been sitting on the bedside table. A small vial laid beside it, one he picked up and poured into the cup. He handed this to Eragon. "Here."

Obediently, Eragon gulped down the tiny amount. He made a face - the liquid was almost tasteless, but it still had a strange feel to it, as well as an oddly familiar odor. "What is it, anyway?"

"A drug to suppress your magic."

Eragon choked. "What?" he gasped. "You - "

Murtagh laughed. "Beginning to wish you'd asked first, right?" He knelt down by Eragon's foot again. "How did you do this to yourself, anyway?" he asked, inspecting the swollen flesh and running his fingers over various spots.

"No idea. I woke up, and it was like this. I guess whoever brought me here dropped me or something… Why – _ow!_ What was that for?" Eragon exclaimed, attempting to yank his foot out of Murtagh's grasp. Of course, Murtagh didn't let go, and it didn't occur to Eragon that playing tug-of-war with a broken limb was going to hurt until he was already crying out from pain.

Eragon whined, then bit his lip, refusing to show just how much agony he was in. It had hurt when Murtagh had twisted his ankle a bit earlier, but he now wished he'd just put up with it instead of instinctively trying to get away.

Murtagh let go, concerned. He laid his hand comfortingly on Eragon's. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Eragon muttered, blushing. Murtagh was being nice?

"Good. Don't jerk around, idiot, or it'll hurt much worse."

Eragon's blush darkened. So much for concern.

"I wouldn't have been jerking around if you hadn't been jerking my_ankle _around," he hissed.

"I was trying to realign the break. If I heal it while it's at an odd angle, the break will heal incorrectly and you might not be able to walk. Then we'd have to break your ankle again and heal it again. I don't think you'd enjoy that." Murtagh's voice was calm. "Sit still. I'm going to try to realign it again, okay?"

"Yeah," Eragon gritted his teeth as Murtagh shifted his foot and a bolt of white-hot pain lanced through the broken limb.

"Waíse heill."

Eragon sighed as Murtagh's magic did its work, and his bones creaked slightly as the break was healed. Sweet relief flowed through him – he could walk again. Thank the gods. He wriggled his foot around a bit, moaning softly in relief and pleasure - only moments before, that small movement would have been agonizing, but now the joints there felt pleasantly loose.

"Better?" Murtagh's voice was too calm.

Eragon frowned, opening his eyes and examining his brother suspiciously.

Eragon opened his mouth to speak, but Murtagh sighed motioned for him to stay silent. "What is there left to say?" he said quietly. "Eragon, I will ask you one last time. Please, I'm begging you - will you just give in to him? Don't put yourself through unnecessary pain."

Eragon shook his head. "I already gave you my answer, Murtagh. I won't let myself become his slave."

"We'll speak later," Murtagh stated flatly, his voice monotone. Eragon sighed, realizing that just after he'd managed to tear it down, Murtagh had indeed put up another emotional barrier. "If we're done here, I should return you to your cell. Test out your foot - make sure it's healed properly." He offered his little brother a hand.

Eragon took Murtagh's offered assistance, but didn't miss that Murtagh flinched slightly from the touch. The brunet staggered upright, blinking in surprise as he once broken limb supported his weight without protest. He gingerly took a step, indulging in a triumphant smile as nothing bad happened.

He was impressed despite himself - healing broken bones was one of the more complicated healing magics, the only more complicated being internal bleeding and brain damage, both of which were rarely used for fear of further harming the patient. Eragon had studied these magics thoroughly - he hated it when someone needed healing and he couldn't help them - and even he found them difficult sometimes. Yet Murtagh, who had been a Rider for a shorter time, had apparently already mastered it.

"Thanks," Eragon said warmly, smiling at his brother's blank features.

Murtagh apparently couldn't hold his emotional barrier at such a simple, sincere reaction. He smiled. But he moved away, motioning for Eragon to follow him, and kept his distance.

Eragon followed silently, thoughts swimming in his head as he watched his brother walk quietly ahead of him. At first he considered how Murtagh was exposing his back - did the older Rider trust him not to suddenly attack in an attempt to escape? Or was Murtagh showing confidence that Eragon couldn't hurt him even if he tried?

Next he found himself thinking about Saphira. He felt the relief that she could no longer access his mind, and the sharp guilt that came with that relief. Saphira was his friend, his dear friend, and as soon as they were in contact again she would know that he had such thoughts about her still.

As soon as thoughts of Saphira vanished, he found another image in his mind, of another female he loved - Arya. He shuddered, not wanting to think about her right now, and pushed those thoughts out of his head.

And unexpectedly, he found himself thinking of someone else in a way he found disturbingly similar to the way he felt about Arya. He flushed, admiring for an instant the way that Murtagh's pale skin glowed softly in the dim light, how gracefully the older male moved... how smooth and soft Murtagh's voice had been in the bedroom...

It was only minutes later, when the door to his cell closed, that it occurred to his that he was feeling an attraction to Murtagh.

**----------------------------------------------------------**

**Yup, Eragon's horomones are kicking in. Pity that Murtagh's aren't...**

**And the reason for Eragon's angst is revealed! I apologize if he's being OOC for acting that way, but in my defense, I don't believe a normal person, after being dragged into being a hero, then having someone constantly invading his most private thoughts and self-doubts, would be very stable of mind. **

**In fact, I suppose I should apologize for Murtagh's OOCness, if he has any. **

**And while I'm apologizing, I'm also sorry for the lack of slash. That comes (no pun intended) later. **


	4. Fool

**Chapter Four: Fool**

Eragon blinked, staring at the young man sitting on the floor of the cell, back to the wall. He'd forgotten about his cellmates. He scanned the bare room briefly - nothing had changed, except that Minerva, the middle-aged woman who had been there earlier, was now absent, and the room was once much dimmer from the lack of sunlight through the window. The old man was still lying on the floor, still unconscious, still feverishly twitching.

"Well? He cut out your tongue or something?" the young man asked dryly, his perpetual grin still in place. "Sit down and tell me was happened. I'm bored out of my mind."

Eragon sat down, back to a wall adjacent to the young man's wall (neither of them wanted to have their back to the door). "Where's Minerva?" he asked, avoiding the question.

"Dunno. They dragged her off a bit after you left."

"Aren't you concerned? They might have killed her."

"No. Why would they kill her? That would make the other peasants angry. They'll probably flog her a bit, then let her go; prisons are overcrowded enough without petty criminals like her. Besides, if they do kill her, it's not my problem. And even if it _was _my problem, I can't do anything about it, so why worry?" The young man continued to lean casually against the wall, unconcerned by the world.

"If the prisons are so overcrowded, then why are you here?" Eragon asked suspiciously.

"I'm a nobleman's son. They can't kill me, because my family will demand money for their loss, and Galby's coffers are already depleted from the war; they can't afford to waste money on silly blood prices. They can't let me go, since I'll keep making trouble." The young man looked at him expectantly, probably anticipating another question.

Eragon didn't know whether to roll his eyes or ask further. His eyes closed, and he allowed himself to fall into deep thought.

Was it possible he was attracted to Murtagh? His own brother? Unfortunately, he knew it was very possible.

For a long time, he had mourned the loss of Arya. She was not dead, but she was disgusted by him - he had gone too far, and acted foolishly, continuing to boldly pursue her after she made it clear she had no romantic interest in him. It was his own fault, he knew, for refusing to accept that she was only a friend, and in pushing for more he had pushed her away; now they were less than friends.

He had not wanted to move on. But Saphira refused to allow him to mope, and had pushed him to look at other women (he smiled, remembering the distant time when Saphira was his best friend, and he hadn't viewed her as a curse). Before long, he'd been spending time with various female friends, from a pretty blacksmith's daughter to Nasuada; however, these friendships remained friendships, and nothing more.

The answer to his problem had come to him - or rather, Saphira had pointed it out - when he'd accidentally walked in on two men half-naked and kissing furiously. After he'd made his hasty escape, Saphira had been quick to say that perhaps he simply prefered men. Eragon had been just to say that Arya was most definitely female, but Saphira had insisted that it was normal for gay men to fixate on unattainable women (how she knew that, Eragon didn't want to know). At Saphira's demand, he'd very quietly sought male company, just as he'd sought female company before. He'd only gotten to kissing with men, but it hadn't taken long for it to become obvious that other men made his body react in ways women didn't.

So it wasn't exactly impossible that he'd begun to... feel things... for Murtagh. But how cruel fate was, to make them brothers...

_You aren't sure what you feel for him,_ Eragon told himself. _It's normal to feel strongly about a brother, and it's only natural you feel even more strongly about him since he's also your rival, a close friend, and a fellow Rider._

_Then you would love him as a brother_, a voice in his head argued back._ This isn't love of any kind._

_What is it then?_ Eragon demanded. Then he winced. Arguing with voices in his head - that wasn't a good sign, even when it was Saphira's voice.

_Lust. You_ want _him._

Eragon froze, eyes widening.

_No,_ he replied firmly._ I don't. People don't lust after their siblings._

_Apparently_ you _do._

Eragon shook his head and didn't argue back. Arguing would be conceding that the voice had a point, and that he felt he had to refute that point. Lust for Murtagh? That was... sick? No. Wrong? Hardly. It was too strange a thought, too different, and it made no sense. Why would he feel that way about Murtagh, of all people? He wasn't the first handsome man Eragon had run into, and he'd felt nothing like this for the others. This wasn't love, no, but that didn't make it lust.

Why can't it be lust? continued the voice. He's strong, handsome, intelligent, protective, and he cares for you a great deal. He's the perfect mate - of course you want him.

_He's not perfect. I don't desire him. It's just brotherly affection... why would I want him as my mate - my partner. Not mate. Partner. Gods, I'm sounding like Saphira - dragons have mates, humans have wives and husbands and partners._ Eragon shivered, more than slightly unnerved by the thought the he might desire his own flesh and blood.

"Are you okay, mate?"

"Not mate," Eragon muttered. "Partner. Husband. Lover."

"Huh?" The young man stared at him, amused and slightly wary.

"Uh, I'm fine," Eragon said quickly, realizing that it was the young man who had spoken, not the stupid voice in his head.

"Are you sure? You've been sitting there and shaking your head like you're arguing with someone. You take a blow to the head?"

"No," Eragon said, flushing and slightly embarrassed. "Why do you talk so much?" he asked, changing the subject.

"I've been sitting here for a week, and there's no end in sight. Prison is horrible, yes, but what really gets you is the boredom." The young man continued to smirk at Eragon in an amused manner. "Couldn't we debate about something? Politics, maybe? Women? Court games?"

"Politics aren't interesting, and neither are women. As for nobles and their games at court, I'm not a noble's son, I wouldn't care or know about them."

The young man laughed and opened his mouth to retort, but he didn't get the chance. Just then, the old man, who had been lying on the floor, dying yet forgotten, let out a loud moan. He writhed, let out strangled gasps and whimpers, his face ashen. Eragon flinched, looking away, but the young man stared at the old one grimly.

"What do you think his story was?" Eragon asked quietly, barely audible over the noise. He could almost feel his own face pale as he stared at they dying man, only a husk in these last hours of life, yet in so much pain. Eragon had killed people before, of course, yet that was a necessary and simple thing, swiftly done and out of mind. It made him cringe to watch this old man in such obvious torment.

"The story doesn't matter in the end," the young man said. His face was sympathetic as he eyed the man, but he did not appear repulsed or saddened as Eragon did. "No matter how he lived his life, he's going to die."

"That's kind of cynical."

"Truth often is."

"Ah." Eragon laughed shakily, glancing over at the old man, whose thrashing had faded into tiny whimpers.

They were quiet for a little while, then the young man looked at him again. "Talk to me, will you? I'm still bored."

---------

The dragon yawned, raising his head. As he shook off the last chains of sleep, he blinked drowsily at his Rider, who was striding toward him across the castle grounds, wearing practical, sturdy clothing, and covered by a thick maroon cloak.

_What?_ the dragon grumbled. _I just settled down to sleep._

_Will you take me flying?_

Thorn blinked at the request. Murtagh's voice held a strange urgency and he seemed uncomfortable. _Are you well, dragonling? _Thorn asked.

Murtagh shook his head, knowing it was useless to try and hide things from his dragon. _No, I'm not. Take me flying, Thorn, please._

_As you wish_. Thorn shifted so that it would be easier to place the saddle on him; within moments, through a combination of magic and Murtagh's experienced hands, the saddle was in place. Murtagh climbed atop his dragon, who crawled out of his shelter and took off.

_Where do you wish to go?_ Thorn asked.

_Somewhere quiet._

Thorn did not speak again. He knew that Murtagh would want to wrap himself in the joy of flying, and did not want to speak of whatever had upset him at the moment.

So Murtagh did just that - he enjoyed it. The air rushing past them, numbing his skin, the land laid out like a tapestry below them, the quiet roaring of the wind, the terror mixed with freedom and release; it made him feel real, in a way nothing else did. It made him normal, delicate, human, mortal – things he was constantly reminded he was not. He relished the feeling.

His lips stretched into a fierce grin; he threw back his head and laughed, his hair whipping in the furious wind. He felt _alive._

Soon the city below them faded into farmland, then forest, as the hills climbed higher in the sky until, in the distance, mountains were visible. Finally, about an hour after they had begun their flight, Thorn sank through the air and descended into a small valley between the larger hills.

Murtagh slid off Thorn as soon as they touched down. He staggered slightly, then straightened, glancing around the area. It certainly wasn't a forest, but there were clumps of tree here and there, enough to provide cover for a spy to… _Stop it_, Thorn said irritably. _We're in the middle of nowhere. No one's going to sneak up on us._

"Sorry, force of habit," Murtagh muttered. He leaned against Thorn's side, looking up at the silent night sky.

Thorn allowed him his silence. Murtagh turned ideas over in his mind, struggling to come up with something – anything – that would convince Eragon.

"Thorn… I don't know what to do." Murtagh sighed.

_We are in a difficult position. You can only do what you think is best._

"I know." Murtagh's gaze dropped to the ground. "I spoke with Eragon."

_Show me_. Murtagh did just that, opening his mind completely and directing Thorn to the memory of the argument.

Thorn was quiet for a long moment, running the conversation through his head and considering it; finally, he twisted his long neck so that he could look at Murtagh. _I don't know what to say,_ the dragon admitted. _But I admit I like this young one more than I did. Strong to his ideals._

"But that's just it! He's too damn idealistic." Murtagh gave a frustrated growl. "He's always been like this. He fights for a cause he neither understands or wants to think about! He insists on staying loyal to the Varden, despite the fact they're almost as bad as Galbatorix."

_They fight for what he believes in._

"As I said, idealistic."Murtagh shook his head disgustedly. "They believe their system is more sound than his? They follow a charismatic leader who rules with little or no restriction. If the Varden wins this war, then what?"

_Then the Lady Nasuada will become queen._ Thorn's stare was understanding. _But she is mortal, of course._

"Yes. She will die. And how long before another corrupt king takes the throne? A century? A decade? The Varden is no better than Galbatorix." Murtagh's voice rose in frustration. "He does not understand! He's too _damn _idealistic – Thorn, how can I make him understand how futile this is?"

_How futile the Varden's attempts are, or how futile his resistance to Galbatorix is?_

"Both. He needs to realize that there it is simply human nature. No matter the government, it will eventually corrupt! He thinks getting rid of Galbatorix will somehow change everything? He is a fool, an idealistic fool, he – "

Murtagh broke off, taking in deep breaths and fighting his temper. "He's a fool," he said voice shaking. "A fool – a fool! He fights for something he doesn't understand, he throws his life away, he torments himself with a duty thrust upon him."

_You have told him this?_ Thorn's voice was somber.

"I tried. I did the best I could. But he wouldn't listen, and it would be useless to tell his how flawed the Varden is – he would not listen, and even if he did, he would not care." Murtagh slumped to the ground. "A fool," he said again.

_You care for him so_. Thorn shifted and curled around his Rider comfortingly, placing his head near Murtagh's lap.

"He's my brother, and the only other Rider of this generation. My dearest friend, before you came along. He is precious to me, in a way different from you." He stroked Thorn's scaled head absentmindedly, his eyes unfocused and thoughtful.

_I know. I ache for another in the same way you do. You cannot fulfill me; we are not enough for each other_, Thorn said, nuzzling his Rider affectionately. _But we are helpless._

"Yes. I know." Murtagh gave another frustrated growl. "I only have so much time to convince him. I can only spare a day or two more before I must inform Galbatorix, or risk his ire. Now that Eragon is in his hands, I am expendable to him… I would risk anything for Eragon, but I swear I will not endanger us if persuading him is a lost cause."

_Good. Or perhaps not. You go to far to be cold and logical, dragonling – be careful, or you will lose your humanity that way. Come, we will return to the castle._

Murtagh bowed his head, considering. Then he shook his head. "No. Thorn, could we spend the night here? I hate my room."

Thorn made a rumbling sound that Murtagh had long ago decided was some sort of chuckle. _Don't you usually solve that problem by distracting yourself? Usually with another person? Usually a soft human female?_

"Human females are _very_ distracting." Murtagh managed a smile and curled up at his dragon's warm side. Thorn unfurled his wing, draping it over his Rider, who was already shivering to fight the night's chill.

_Sleep well, dragonling._

------------

The door swung open with a grating screech.

For the second time, Eragon's eyes snapped open, his hand immediately flying to his hip; feeling nothing, his eyes widened in horror. His sword was gone? How... oh. Right. He'd been captured. Of course his sword was gone.

He lay on the cold stone floor, once again staring at someone's boot. Correction - two pairs of boots. The cell was lit again, so it was obviously dawn. He could no longer hear the young man snoring in the background, so he was probably awake as well. The old man was silent; perhaps he was asleep and calm?

"Awake, Rider," growled a voice.

Eragon looked upward to the figure towering above him, eyes widening as he did; that wasn't Murtagh's voice, and that certainly wasn't Murtagh. He leapt lightly to his feet (something Oromis had trained him to do, and was much harder than it looked).

Down stared a man that Eragon had never seen before, and wished immediately that it had stayed that way. Two long scars, one across his right cheek, and the other across his forehead, marred what had once been handsome features. The scars, combined with oddly dark eyes, made the man seem not ugly, but intimidating; the scowl enhanced this impression.

Behind him stood a man with... was that gray skin? Yes, it was. Black hair, short and scruffy, stuck up on his head. He grinned broadly, showing off pointed teeth - his eyes, like the first man's, seemed oddly dark. The gray man - no, the beast - seemed horribly familiar to Eragon, in a way he couldn't explain.

"Saldroz," the scarred man growled. "Introduce me to the little traitor."

The gray man - Saldroz - smiled even wider, his sharp teeth glittering in the light in a way normal teeth would not. _Shade_, Eragon realized, horrified. _Just like Durza._ "Traitor to your order and to your rightful king, I order you to kneel to your new master," the Shade said lazily. "This is your true leige, Emporer Galbatorix."

----------

**Yay for cliffies! **

**Constructive criticism is very much appreciated.**


	5. Reunion

**Chapter Five: Reunion**

"This is your true liege, Emperor Galbatorix."

Eragon froze in shock.

Galbatorix.

The name rang in his head, a bitter, rough sound. Four cold syllables, four syllables that were often spat or snarled, four infamous syllables that every child in the Empire knew. Galbatorix, Emperor Galbatorix, Galbatorix the madman.

His face was scarred. His eyes were cold. His mouth was twisted into a permanent scowl. His body was obscured by impractical robes of court. His ears were slightly pointed, almost as much as Eragon's, but not quite.

Galbatorix turned to the door. "Leave us!" he roared. Eragon jumped, and there was the sound of many hurried footsteps – the guards were leaving.

Galbatorix glanced down at the floor, and Eragon followed his gaze; the old man lay there, motionless. The mad king then looked towards the far wall. The young man sat there, also motionless, but very awake.

The Shade - Saldroz - strode over to the old man and kicked him experimentally. "This human is dead, my liege," the Shade said when the old man didn't react. "He has already begun to stiffen."

"Good. I want this conversation to remain private." Galbatorix glanced again at the young man, whose eyes were wide and his face deathly pale.

"But the young human is very much alive," the Shade continued, eyes glinting wickedly.

"Dead tongues move the least," agreed the madman.

"Indeed, my liege." The Shade drew his sword and advanced. The young man's face paled further, and he pressed himself into the wall, as if attempting to pass through it. Eragon could see his hands beginning to shake. The Shade continued to advance, and the young man scrambled away to the adjacent wall – the wall with the door. Saldroz chuckled at this futile retreat.

"Why are you here?" Eragon asked suddenly.

Saldroz blinked in surprise, then looked at him.

"Why? Obviously, to take you, child," Galbatorix snapped. "Don't be a fool."

"Yes, but how are you here? Murtagh said – " Eragon stopped, mentally cursing. He'd meant to distract them to prevent the young man's death, not to betray Murtagh's continued disloyalty.

Galbatorix chuckled nastily. "Don't worry, I already know just how far my Rider will go to squirm around my orders – that's why I have Saldroz. My _loyal_ servant. As a shadow-shade, he is able to invade the twilight realm between the conscious and unconscious mind. It was a simple thing for him to enter my dreams and inform me of your capture, and when I awoke, I immediately came here." Galbatorix shook his head with disgust. "I see the elves did not take it upon themselves to teach you more of Shades. Such a pity. I will have to make sure you are better taught if you are to come under my guidance."

"Don't worry. You won't have to bother; I will never be under your 'guidance'."

Galbatorix's eyes narrowed. "Don't test me, boy. I can show you pain beyond anything you've ever felt before."

"How typical," the young man muttered. "Threats of torture."

Galbatorix stared at him in surprise.

_Idiot_, Eragon wanted to yell. He glared at the young man. _Don't you know when to keep your mouth shut? _

The young man swallowed hard, realizing that the mad king's attention was now on him. "I mean that in the best possible way," he added quickly. Eragon shook his head; he was beginning to seriously doubt the young man's sanity.

Saldroz opened his mouth to speak, but he never got the chance.

A loud roar, then the sound of rumbling, broke through the conversation. Saldroz froze, eyes widening, as did Galbatorix. Eragon stiffened as well - a dragon. Thorn? But –

Saldroz looked towards his master. "My lord?" he asked, confused. "Shruikan – "

"It's not Shruikan," Galbatorix interrupted, voice strained, and eyes loosing focus. Eragon recognized the look as the same one he himself often wore when contacting Saphira while she battled. "Shruikan is fighting her."

_Her._ Eragon's heart leapt. Was it possible? Saphira? But how had she found him?

Galbatorix's eyes snapped back to reality. He directed his scowl to Saldroz. "Stay here and make sure the Rider doesn't leave."

"My liege?"

"I'm going to find that useless fool Murtagh and his overgrown lizard. Shruikan might be able to kill the blue female, but he won't be able to capture her alone." Galbatorix strode away, out the door and down the hall.

Saldroz looked after his master, appearing puzzled.

Saphira. Saphira was here. Eragon felt relief wash over him, filled with horror and guilt; there was no way she could win a fight against Shruikan, Murtagh, Thorn, and Galbatorix, especially without her Rider. By coming to his aid, she was condemning herself. He needed to escape, now.

The Shade turned slightly, again regarding the young man and obviously contemplating murder.

Leaving his back wide open to Eragon.

Eragon watched the Shade carefully advance on the young man. Then he narrowed his eyes determinedly. It was rash, it was stupid, and it was probably going to get him killed, but he had to risk it. If he didn't, he would be worse than dead as soon as Galbatorix returned.

Eragon took no more time to consider. He instead sprang to his feet and threw himself at the Shade.

Saldroz howled in shock. He thrashed as Eragon wrapped his arms around the Shade's neck, dropping his sword instinctively to try and claw at Eragon's arms. His thrashing threw Eragon into a wall before the Rider managed to get a proper grip on him; Eragon shuddered and fell limply to the ground from the wall, head spinning with pain.

Dimly, he was aware of the Shade speaking in a strange tongue – the Ancient Language? Eragon gasped as the first bolt of agony shot up his spine; he writhed, shrieking, at the sudden assault on his very being. It felt like his veins were being torn out of his skin all at once, jerking as they went, his toenails being ripped out and shoved back in, his organs shifting and struggling within him, his very skin slowly roasting - it was horrible, terrible, excruciating –

It was gone.

Eragon panted, fighting for breath as the pain abruptly disappeared. His eyes, which had been shut tight, opened, meeting the sight of the Shade crumpled on the floor. The gray beast moaned feebly as he clutched at his belly, blood flowing from between his fingers and making a growing puddle on the floor. The young man stood above Saldroz, wide-eyed and holding a red-stained sword - the Shade's sword, from when he had dropped it.

"Get him through the heart!" Eragon managed to say. The young man stared at him, confused and scared.

"He's already dying."

"Just do it!"

But it was too late. Saldroz jerked one last time, then shuddered and went limp. His body vanished. Eragon groaned in frustration; they could have been rid of another enemy, but the Shade would soon reform, just as dangerous as before.

"Shades don't die unless you get them through the heart," Eragon panted. "H-help me up."

The young man just stared, appearing rather dazed, at the place were the body had been on the floor. His face was still white, as were his knuckles from gripping the sword too tightly, and his eyes were wide and blank.

Eragon gritted his teeth and struggled upright, wincing as a stab of pain lanced through his back – it had taken most of the force from when he had slammed into the wall, and was protesting every movement. As soon as he managed to right himself, he stepped forward and slapped the young man as hard as he could across the face.

The young man gaped at him. "What the hell was that for?"

"Snap out of it," Eragon said. "This is no time to panic and freeze up."

"Oh." The young man swayed slightly, then shook his head as if too clear it. For once, he didn't seen to have a smart comeback. Then, to Eragon's surprise, he slapped himself, took a deep breath, and stared at the sword in his hand. He offered it to Eragon. "Here."

Eragon took it, then gave the young man a questioning look. "You're defenseless without this. You realize that, right?"

"I'm defenseless _with_ it, mate. I was taught how to duel, not how to fight." Appearing more or less back to his normal self, he went to the door and paused there, waiting for Eragon to follow.

Eragon nodded, understanding the logic beneath the words.

He took a deep breath. He had a weapon. He was no longer helpless.

"And now we escape." The young man's mouth curled in his customary grin, though Eragon could see him shaking and that his faced had yet to regain color. They hurried out of the cell, two ragged prisoners who barely knew each other, the roars of the fighting dragons echoing around them.

----------

Murtagh leaned farther down on his dragon's back, hair whipping in the wind, eyes trained on the distant horizon.

For only the second time in his life, he was filled with an odd determination. In this task, he was not going to fail – he could not allow Eragon to harm himself like this. No matter what it took, he would convince his brother to give in - for his own good. He would not see his own flesh and blood harmed when he could prevent it.

_You know that's not the real reason._

Murtagh scowled. _Thorn, stop eavesdropping on my thoughts._

_I can't. You're very loud when you're upset. Calm down._

_I'm trying. _Murtagh took a deep breath and shoved his troublesome emotions aside. A_nd what do you mean, not the real reason?_

_We'll talk about it later. Have you thought about what to say to Eragon?_

_No. But I will convince him. I can't let him do this to himself._

_You can try, but you may fail._

_I won't fail_, Murtagh said determinedly_. I won't. I'll protect him. _

_From himself?_

_From anything!_

_As you would do for any family._

_Blood in a tight bond._

_As you would do for Morzan, or for the human Roran, then._

Murtagh hesitated.

_Then it is not your brotherly affection that is affecting you, _Thorn reasoned._ Didn't you feel just as protective of him before you knew that you were nestmates?_

_Thorn, I'm not talking about this with you,_ Murtagh said sharply. _Just hurry. We only have so much time before Galbatorix comes for Eragon._

_As you wish, Rider, _Thorn replied coldly. _So sorry I tried to pry into your life. I keep forgetting I'm an overgrown pet, not a friend. _

Murtagh flinched._ Look, I'm sorry. But this isn't the time for this. _

_You're right, but I expect to talk to you about it in the future. You - what was that? _

_What was what? _

_A dragon's roar... I could hear it faintly on the wind. _

Murtagh stiffened._ From the castle? _

_I think so. _

Murtagh's breath hitched. He leaned farther down across Thorn's back, cutting wind resistance. _Hurry,_he urged.

---------

Eragon ran faster down the dimly lit corridor as another roar sounded, this one with a note of pain in it. Saphira needed him! Forget their stupid bond, forget the pain it was causing him, forget the sleepless nights he spent wishing for her disappearance; Saphira, his most loyal and true friend, needed him.

The young man was right behind him, eyes constantly flickering left and right as if fearing ambush. The two of them slowed to a halt as they came to a door; Eragon quickly pulled it open, and the young man sighed in relief as it revealed only a stairwell with no guards in sight.

"Stop worrying about guards, they'll have either run or went to help Shruikan," Eragon said distractedly, and began taking the steps two at a time.

"Are all Riders crazy, or is it just you?" the young man shot back, quickly following him. "Tell me, do you honestly believe that you're going to be of any help against Emperor Galbatorix and his dragon with someone else's sword and no magic?"

"I'm not crazy, and if I am, why are you coming with me?"

"Safer than escaping alone. I think. This might actually be worse, since Galbatorix is so keen on you staying for a bit more..."

"Are you going to come with me to the Varden, then?"

"And get involved in some stupid war? Hell no. I'm fine staying a not-so-innocent bystander, thank you very much. As soon as you get to your dragon, I'm taking advantage of the commotion and slipping away. My cousin was thrown out of the family a while back - she lives in the city. I'll go live with her for a while; we get along fine."

They came upon a landing. Swiftly they went through the thick door there, Eragon with his sword ready and the young man ready to take off the moment danger presented itself.

No one, just another empty corridor. Eragon glanced down both directions. "Damn. Which way should we go?"

"Pick at random."

"Fine. Right."

"Left it is." The young man turned and began to trot in the chosen direction.

Eragon stuttered indignantly, then hurried after him. "What's wrong with going right?"

"Considering the fact you're fated to fight Galbatorix, you can't be a very lucky fellow," the young man explained. "So whatever direction you pick is unlucky."

"Ah," Eragon replied sarcastically. "Makes perfect sense."

"Doesn't it, though?" The young man grinned, glancing over his shoulder at Eragon as they hurried down the corridor. The grin vanished as the sound of many footsteps - at least ten people's footstep - echoed through the corridor from around a bend fast approaching. The young man halted, yanking open a door off to the side and making a quick gesture for Eragon to go in. As soon as he was, the young man followed and shut the door noiselessly.

The young man pressed a finger to his lips; Eragon nodded, and examined the room. They were in a small bedroom with two bunk beds, and four identical tiny wooden boxes, probably for clothing or possessions. Servants' quarters, and unused ones at that - everything was covered in a thin layer of dust, some of which they disturbed and was now swirling through the air. The only light came from a large window opposite of them. Oddly enough, the noises the fighting dragons were making were much louder now.

The footsteps continued to get louder. Eragon strained his ears, managing to catch a snippet of conversation. "... heard voices."

"Captain Dominic said to go straight to courtyard and assist the Emperor. We don't have time to chase ghosts."

"Why's the emperor here, anyway?"

"Dunno. Ask, why don't you." The last person to speak guffawed, as did several of the other men on the other side of the door; then their voices faded. They were gone.

"There. Now we can get back to escaping." The young man turned, then saw the window and chuckled. "Or we could go out the window... though that's rather - " He stopped suddenly, staring out the window oddly, eyes huge and face paling a bit again like it had in the cell.

"What?" Eragon scrambled upright and went to the window, and his eyes widened as well.

He'd assumed they were on the first floor, considering that fact that the dungeon was partially underground and they'd gone through the first door they'd come across when going up the stairwell. But no, they were two stories up, in a room facing the courtyard.

And outside the window, Eragon could see a huge black dragon and a very familiar sapphire dragon locked in combat.

"Saphira!" Eragon cried, his hate of their bond forgotten in relief. Unable to hear him, she continued to throw herself recklessly at the larger dragon; Eragon felt a rush of pride as she scored a hit along Shruikan's flank. Shruikan was easily twice Saphira's size, yet she was obviously more agile and much quicker, as well as possessed by a strange savagery. But she was losing. Shruikan was far older and more experienced, and Saphira was losing, despite the fact that Galbatorix, who stood on the ground a few dozen feet away, was doing nothing to aid his dragon.

Without hesitation, Eragon threw himself out the window, making sure to toss the sword down first.

He rolled as he landed, making sure to take the impact on all the right spots of his body. Staggering upright, he snatched up the Shade's sword from where it had landed; he readied himself as Galbatorix, who had been watching the fight, whirled around to face him.

"Good luck!" Eragon heard the young man call from the window.

"How?" Galbatorix exclaimed, eyes fixed on Eragon. "Saldroz - where is Saldroz?"

Eragon opened his mouth for a retort, but he only started as a huge thump distracted him. The ground shook. Eragon glanced to where Saphira had landed, and now stood, crouching and staring intently at her Rider. He hesitated, glanced at Galbatorix, then sprinted to Saphira, leaping upon her back as she sprang once again into the air in an ungainly leap.

Eragon clutched one of Saphira's spines to keep himself seated. _Saphira,_ he shouted through their bond, somehow renewed through their contact with one another. Normally, he would have wondered how he managed to speak to Saphira while his magic was cut off, but now wasn't the time.

_Eragon,_ Saphira hissed furiously. Eragon could feel her rage through their bond, as well as her relief and her desperation, but he didn't care - they were together again, as Rider and dragon should be. _Eragon, I'm never letting you out of my sight again! You cut me off from you, hunted men without telling me or allowing me to help, put yourself in danger when I could have easily helped you - you -_

_I'm sorry. _

Saphira growled, hearing the sincerity in Eragon's voice but not convinced._Hold on,_ she told him grimly. She dove to the side as Shruikan threw himself at her, claws extended; Eragon clung tightly to Saphira, almost shaken off by the movement. Saphira wheeled about in the air and pounded her wings against the air as hard as she could. They shot off to the west, steadily gaining momentum and Shruikan right behind them.

Eragon pressed himself as flat to Saphira's back as he could as they sped through the air. _Can you outrun him? _he thought at her.

_Outrace that clumsy giant?_ Saphira snorted. _Female dragons are made for flying, little one. It will be easy. _

Eragon glanced over his shoulder and saw she was right - Shruikan certainly wasn't gaining on them. In fact, it looked like he was falling behind. The blue Rider smiled triumphantly and let himself relax, putting his trust in the sapphire dragon he that, only days ago, he had considered a curse.

He let go with one hand to stroke her thick hide affectionately._Saphira, I missed you_, he said. And he wasn't lying.

-----------

**Finally! This one took forever to finish. I wrote a good bit of it during my Spanish, Health, and English classes... that's how desperate I was to post it in time. (I have a self-imposed deadline each week on Friday. If I miss it, I have to wait till next week to post... just how I am.) **

**Constructive criticism in appreciated! **


	6. Pleasure and Daydreams

**Warning: chapter contains sexual content. That means lemon 'n lime.  
**

-----------------------------------

**Chapter 6: Twisted Daydreams**

They flew long and hard, Saphira's wings pumping the air with desperation until at long last Eragon could feel her strength begin to fail.

They'd flown for what felt like days, but, from the position of the sun, had only been a few hours. After the first few minutes, Eragon had begun to shiver; a while later, his limbs had become numb and stiff. Now he shook violently, his fingers almost frozen as they clutched at Saphira's spikes. His entire body ached, since it had been a while since he had ridden anything, especially a dragon.

When at last Saphira's pace slowed, Eragon pressed his cheek against her rough hide. _Saphira. _

_Yes, little one?_

_Land._

She did not reply, but they began to drop through the air. When they finally touched down in a small clearing in the middle of a forest, Eragon slid off Saphira and allowed himself to land on his back, wincing as he did. He shook still, and curled up into a ball; his thin clothes were no protection against the chill of early winter. Saphira curled around him, pressing her stomach against his shivering form. _Are you well?_ she asked. _They did not injure you in that prison, did they? Did Galbatorix damage your mind?_

_No. He would have, but you came. _He pressed himself against her more fully, enjoying her presence for the first time in weeks._ How did you find me? _

Saphira was silent for a moment._ I… I'm not sure. When I still couldn't contact you after nearly two days, I realized it wasn't because you were blocking me out, it was because you were cut off from me. _She nuzzled him gently_. Little one, I thought you were dead! _

_If I were, you would have felt it, _Eragon said, stroking her muzzle._ And dragons don't normally survive their Rider's death, remember?_

_I wasn't very rationale at the time. When Nasuada came to tell me you still had not returned, I felt as if my suspicions were confirmed. I felt as if I wished to die… Eragon, you promised me once that you would never again go into danger where I could not protect you. _

_I know. I remember. You told me if I did, you'd tie me to your back and never let me off. _Eragon smiled at the memory of a happier, if just as desperate, time.

_Yes. _

_But how did you find me? _Eragon asked again.

_I felt something to the north of the Varden's base in Surda. I followed it, and found Shruikan. _Her tone seethed with rage as she spoke the name_. The beast. The stink of his corruption infuriated me – so I attacked him, to make him pay for what he master had done. I once felt pity for him, but no more! A twisted, foul creature is he. _

Eragon agreed, then closed his eyes. _You're angry with me,_ he said after a moment.

_Yes. But I am more relieved that you are alive than furious that you're an idiot._

Eragon smiled wryly.

_Now rest, Eragon,_ Saphira urged.

_Shruikan will catch up with us. _

_I will only let you sleep a little while, then. I will stand guard and wake you when I think he may be close to finding us, if he searches at all. He may have returned to his master. _

_If only one of us sleeps, it should be you. You're the one doing the flying, not me. _

Saphira snorted._We dragons have far more endurance than little humans such as yourself. _

_Egotist. _

_Fool, _she replied fondly_. Now rest. _

_--------_

He awoke to darkness. He shivered as his eyes flickered open – it was so very cold, nearly unbearable. With a jolt he realized why – Saphira was no longer pressing against him. He sat up and scanned his surroundings.

She was nowhere nearby, and he couldn't sense her. Why? She had promised to protect him. He called out to her aloud, and frowned as the name left his lips. It sounded strange, different – not normally how he said Saphira's name. Twisted, warped… had it been another name entirely? He tried again, and again the name felt strange.

Then he paused, realizing something. It was not Saphira he sought, because the name was obviously not Saphira's. Normally, this would have made sense to him, but he found himself accepting it as if it were something he'd known all along. No, he sought someone far different - a man? Hazel eyes, dark hazel eyes in a pale, handsome face. That was the man he called for.

He shivered at the thought of the man, feeling something awaken within himself. A hard, warm feeling, making his heart pound and his finger tips tingle as if anticipating caressing that pale skin.

Again, he said the name. It came out clumsily, but it somehow it felt right.

There was no response. He stumbled upright, leaning against a nearby tree. Why was he here, all alone? He shouted the name this time, while silently pleading for its owner to appear. When no one did, he fell to his knees. It was so cold, so very cold, so very empty here. He felt as if there were a gaping hole in his chest, like his heart had been missing his entire life and he had just now noticed. Again, he called out.

Someone touched his shoulder.

He jerked away, stumbling onto the ground and landing on his back, staring up at the man who touched him. The man's hazel eyes gleamed, but he didn't speak.

"Murtagh. I've been looking for you," Eragon said quietly.

"I know." Murtagh's eyes didn't so much as flicker; he held the brunet's gaze unflinchingly. Those hazel eyes burned with something Eragon could not identify, nor look away from. The older man didn't move, but after a moment, he broke eye contact to examine Eragon carefully.

Eragon swallowed, then licked his lips. "Murtagh," he said hoarsely. A plea, for something he could neither understand nor put into words.

Murtagh's eyes once again met his, then he moved forward, sliding to the ground as he did. Eragon laid motionless as Murtagh, now on his hand and knees, straddled him. "What are you - " Eragon stammered.

Murtagh pressed a finger to his lips, a sly look in his eyes. "Hush," he said simply.

Eragon allowed a small pant to escape his lips, unable to deny his arousal as Murtagh's eyes again raked down his body appreciatively. Eragon allowed his eyes to flicker shut as callused fingers caressed his cheek, then neck… then moving to the hem of his shirt. They stopped there, and fingered the cloth almost absentmindedly; Eragon opened his eyes again, to see Murtagh smirking at him, making no move to continue. Eragon began to form words of protest, but instead, his breath hitched in his throat as Murtagh's agile fingers slid lower.

But they only went so low. Eragon whimpered as they slid out again, only to dip back in briefly; still smirking, Murtagh brushed his hand against Eragon's now obvious need, before quickly pulling away.

"Murtagh," Eragon choked out. His shuddered in pleasure as Murtagh continued to touch him, enjoying every bit of the attention the older man was paying him, no matter how surreal it was. Murtagh was acting so strangely, and Saphira was gone... what was...

But these pesky thoughts vanished as Murtagh's hand moved even lower, in an even more teasing manner; Eragon groaned. "Hm?" Murtagh whispered tauntingly.

Eragon didn't bother to answer. Instead he reached for his own belt, feeling relief as he heard the satisfying 'clink' of it unbuckling as he fumbled with it. He couldn't take anymore of this tension.

Murtagh snatched his hand away, pinning it the ground. "Oh no you don't," he hissed, hot breath tickling Eragon's cheek. He quickly grabbed the other hand as well, pining them above Eragon's head and holding them there with one hand. Eragon gasped as Murtagh's free hand curled around his now free erection and began to tease the very tip of it with his thumb. Eragon's back arched, and his hips moved up to press harder into that wonderful heat.

But no.

Murtagh, like the bastard he was, had let go.

Both Eragon's hands and throbbing shaft were now free of Murtagh's grip. Eragon began to pull his hands down in another attempt to relieve himself, but they were still held in place - Murtagh had bound him? How?

But all his questions vanished as Murtagh tugged the unbuckled pants down the rest of the way and began to delicately licked the head of Eragon's shaft, causing his victim to gasp. Cautiously, teasingly, Murtagh licked and kissed him, drawing out soft moans; Eragon pulled at his bonds, wanting nothing more than release and knowing that Murtagh probably wouldn't allow that any time soon. Just when Eragon though he could cum without Murtagh fully engulfing him, the older man pulled away.

And, without warning, he swallowed the hard flesh completely.

Eragon cried out as Murtagh's tongue viciously - wonderfully! - caressed him. He writhed in the grass, eyes shut tightly and spots dancing before his eyes, going higher and higher until at last -

Again, Murtagh pulled away.

Eragon groaned in frustration. "Murtagh, damn it, let me cum," he panted. Murtagh laughed.

"Not a chance, Shadeslayer," he breathed. He moved so that he was no longer in between Eragon's legs, but was now straddling him again. Eragon's shirt was then torn straight down the middle, then the sleeves; after that, Murtagh simply yanked it off him and tossed it away.

Just as delicately as he had done before, Murtagh licked one of Eragon nipples. When there was no reaction, Murtagh bit down on it, then began to swirl his tongue roughly across the pebbled surface; Eragon began to tremble, not sure of how much more of this torture he could take. He wanted Murtagh to just let him **cum** already. He bit his lip, holding back a moan as Murtagh used a free hand to toy with the neglected nipple, rolling it skillfully around on his fingertips at an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he slid a hand down across Eragon's stomach. The hand moved closer, closer to Eragon's almost painfully hard arousal, but it stopped short, instead choosing to draw abstract designs a few inches below his belly button.

Eragon stiffened as he tasted blood, before he realized that he had bitten his lip so hard he'd broken the skin. He continued to pant as Murtagh dragged his teeth across a nipple, then bare skin - he shut his eyes tightly, realizing he just couldn't take it any more. His entire body was strung tightly, he ached for release that he could not attain, and he simply could not take it any more.

"Murtagh, please," Eragon groaned.

Murtagh smirked again. "As you wish," he said.

True to his word, he knelt between Eragon's legs, curling a hand around the brunet's erection. Eragon groaned loudly, hips bucking upwards. It felt so good, so incredibly, hideously wonderful, far beyond anything he'd ever done with a woman. His ecstasy was driven to new heights, and he continued to climb, higher and higher until he teetered on the very precipice of climax.

Eragon moaned in relief, and he came hard, jerking and shuddering as he did so. He laid still and limply on the ground, gasping for breath, while Murtagh curled his arms around his chest. Eragon closed his eyes, beginning to feel strangely tired...

--------------

And then he awoke.

He laid still for a long moment, panting, flushed, and very aware of a sticky sensation between his legs.

_Eragon?_ Saphira asked, puzzled; Eragon could feel her shifting against his back, craning her neck around to stare at him. _Are you well?_

_I... yes,_ Eragon muttered, face reddening. He sat upright, brushing his hair out of his face and struggling to get a grip on himself._ I just had a rather vivid dream._

_Vivid? What do you...? _She trailed off her sentence, and Eragon's blush darkened. He knew she had just spotted the wet patch on his pants, and could no doubt feel the afterglow of sex in him.

_You couldn't feel the lust radiating from me while I slept?_ Eragon asked dryly, now bright crimson.

_I was focusing on trying to sense if Shruikan was nearby_, Saphira said. _Eragon, is this why you kept me out of your mind before you were captured? Because you felt this way about Murtagh?  
_

_I kept you out out of stupidity, and nothing more. _Eragon stroked her hide affectionately. _My want for him didn't have anything to do with it - I **didn**_**'t**_ want him, not until... recently. Actually, before I just thought he was attractive. I didn't realize that it went any farther until just now. _

_The urge to mate is a powerful thing,_ Saphira told him. _This may have something to do with our bond... I feel I am changing. Soon, I think, I will be able to lay eggs. Perhaps my recent urges have affected you, or perhaps it is your own human hormones. Whatever it is, you must be very careful about who you take to bed. Understand that lust is far more fickle than love, and do not confuse the two. _

_I will be careful._ Then blinked, realizing something she'd said. _You've been having urges? _

Saphira snorted. Y_es, and you would have felt them, had you not been so determined to shut me out. _

He flinched. _Saphira, I am truly sorry._ He stood up, brushing himself off. _Is Shruikan or Thorn nearby?_

_No. Thorn was briefly, probably looking for us under the king's orders, but he didn't come close enough to find us. I think we're safe.  
_

_You can sense him before he sense you? _Eragon asked, surprised.

_You know so little of dragons, Eragon, yet you ride one._

_Egotist,_ Eragon muttered. _Is there a stream nearby or something, then?_

_Yes. I can hear one about five hundred yards that way, _she said, flicking her tail to Eragon's right. _I'm taking a nap. Wake me if you somehow manage to get yourself in trouble again. _And with that, she curled up and went to sleep.

Eragon nodded. His hand went automatically to his hip, to check and make sure he carried his sword - but of course he did not. He sighed when he remembered he didn't have one at the moment. If he was attacked, he'd have to depend on either running back to Saphira, or his magic, which could possibly still be under the influence of the drug he'd been fed.

Experimentally, he reached into himself and felt the familiar buzz of energy just under his skin. "Stenr risa (stone, rise)," he commanded, staring at a pebble on the ground. Slowly, it rose in the air, until it hung at eye level. Eragon smiled, satisfied. He magic was indeed back.

He found the stream Saphira spoke of easily enough. It was deeper and swifter than he expected, but the water was clear and clean. He pulled his shirt off and pants off, tossed them aside, and slid in, squawking in surprise and horror as he did; it was _cold_. He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, then moved in close to the bank grabbed a handful of gritty sand. He continued to shiver as he scrubbed, but he was well aware that momentary cold was well worth being clean for what would probably be the last time in what might be days. He and Saphira couldn't stay in the same place, and... he wasn't sure about going back to the Varden.

As he scrubbed, he began to think. Saphira... they were back together at last. Not just physically, but mentally as well; it was a refreshing feeling, to know that he was once again friends with his dearest friend. No more of this foolishness about keeping her out of his head... she obviously didn't care about his lack of enthusiasm about being a hero... or even about Murtagh! He could be with Murtagh, and she wouldn't care. Yes, Saphira was a friend he could never lose.

_Be with Murtagh_? he thought dryly a moment later. _He'd have to want me first, and I doubt he'll like the idea of fucking his own brother. _

As he scrubbed, his thoughts went completely to Murtagh, and the dream he'd just experienced. Eragon shivered, and not from the cold of the water. For a moment, he turned his thoughts away, to Saphira, Nasuada, and Arya, and to the possibilities before him, but he found himself unable to distract himself. Sighing, he realized it was useless. Whether he liked it or not, he was hugely attracted to Murtagh, and the fact that is was only physically and not romantically made little difference.

He brought his hand absentmindedly to his chest as he thought of Murtagh; gently, he began to toy with the nub and imagine that the older man was there with him, pushing him against the bank and beginning stroke his chest, just like Eragon himself was doing now. Eragon froze, realizing what he was doing, and quickly brought his hand away. He sucked in a breath to steady himself; what kind of pervert was he, to be having thoughts like that just after he'd had a wet dream? Wasn't his body content? Apparently not. Eragon flushed, realizing that his "problem" wasn't going to go away any time soon; he couldn't stop thinking about the dream.

He hesitated, then allowed himself continue. The cold of the water was forgotten in the heat of the daydream as his trembling hands moved to caress his collarbone, his nipples again, his ribs, his abdomen, his hips... then inward, to his erection.

Eragon began to stroke himself, letting out a soft groan. He teased the tip of his erection, playing with it just as Murtagh had done in the dream. "Murtagh," Eragon whimpered, shutting his eyes tightly. He panted into the chilled air, his heated breath coming out in white puffs. He felt good, but not as good as it had before. It simply wasn't the same when it was his own hand.

An idea struck him then.

He let his hands fall away from his hardened length, and scrambled out of the water to snatch up his shirt. Back in the river he went, this time with cloth in hand. _This is stupid_, the sensible part of him thought. _It probably won't work, and even if it does, it might hurt me... _He shrugged, deciding that if it gave him a feeling similar to what he'd gotten while sleeping, he honestly didn't care. It was worth the risk.

He licked his lips nervously, searching for the right words. He'd have to be specific, or perhaps very unspecific. Finally, he said, "Unokia mi re'gehi (give me pleasure)." If it hurt him instead, he could simply release the spell.

Eragon began to feel hesitant as the shirt wriggled in his grasp. _Perhaps this was not the best idea... _But he immediately dismissed those the thought as the cloth slipped out of his hand and wrapped itself firmly around his cock.

He gasped at the contact. The shirt encompassed him tightly, squeezing him for a moment before beginning to writhe against the heated flesh. Eragon groaned, arching his back a little and imagining that it wasn't a charmed piece of cloth, but Murtagh kneeling between his legs... He whimpered as the shirt slid up and down, squeezing him slightly again. "Murtagh," he hissed, sinking his hands into the sand he pressed against and clutching at it. "Murtagh! A-ah..."

No, he wasn't alone in a stream, he was in his room at the Varden's new base in Surda. He was laying in his tub, and he'd been sitting there too long so the water was cold... Murtagh had come in and decided to take a bath with him...

Eragon groaned, finding his own hands stroking his erection along with the cloth. He continued to pant and moan as the daydream he'd woven took even greater hold; he could imagine exactly how Murtagh was pushed against him, exactly how and where those callused hands were touching him, exactly how the water swirled around them...

"Murtagh," he whispered as he came. He lay there, panting, but the cloth continued its convulsions. Wearily, he released the magic and grabbed the shirt before it could float away.

Eragon closed his eyes. That had been... strange. Good, but strange. Absentmindedly, he wondered if Oromis had tried this method before, and then he shuddered, picturing his teacher laying in his tub, a shirt concealing his hairless groin. "Ugh," he muttered, dispelling the disturbing vision.

It was then that the enormity of what he had done hit him. He'd just magically jerked off to his brother. His straight brother, who happened to be his close friend as well. And he'd done this after having a kinky wet dream about the same man tying him up and giving him a blow job.

"Fuck," he muttered, leaning against the riverbank. As if his life wasn't complicated enough already. He rose out of the water, magically dried his shirt and himself, got dressed, and went to talk to Saphira while trying not to have a nervous breakdown.

-----------------------------------------

**I think this whole torture-sex thing is really getting to be a habit... I'm going to have to force myself to write a normal lemon for once... though if I do say so myself, Eragon's solo act was inspiring. ;D **

**Sorry it took so long to update! First it was writer's block, then I was struggling (and failing) to work on "She Wouldn't Dare", then I just got plain apathetic. And that's when exams kicked in at school. All excuses aside, I'll try to keep updating regularly, but I can't promise once-a-week updates anymore. More like once-every-two-week updates, at the most. Since I'm having trouble with "She Wouldn't Dare", you see... the last part of the third chapter just refuses to be written... **


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